Stepbrother
by cherry cup
Summary: AU. The Grangers adopt a young Tom Riddle, and seal their daughter's fate forever. Set in the 30s-40s.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

Hermione had never said she wanted a little brother, but she got one, just the same. Maybe her parents thought she was too lonely and silent, wrapped up, as she was, in her books and stories. Maybe they were worried that she stayed in her room all day and talked to herself and made up her own world. Maybe that wasn't right for an eight-year old. But she was happy. She ate all her vegetables, she did her school work, and she loved her parents. Wasn't that enough?

One day she came home from school and found him there, standing between her parents in the dim hallway. He wasn't little. He wasn't little, at all. She had pictured a snivelling creature, a little baby she'd have to care for. But he was a tall boy with awkward limbs and grey clothes that did not fit him. He had a pair of shining blue eyes, so metallic and cold that she could not look at them without flinching. His face was remote, expressionless. He did not look alive.

Hermione wanted to cry, but she was too proud to do it in front of a stranger. She was supposed to be a big girl. At school, the teachers said she was _very_ mature for her age.

"Mione, sweetheart? This is Tom. Say hello to him, darling. He's your new brother."

She sucked in a silent breath and took a step forward, raising her hand towards him. She was appalled to find that it was shaking. But she was sure he couldn't see it.

"Hello Tom," she said half-heartedly, but with as much poise as she could muster.

He looked at her hand, then at her face, covered as it was by her bushy hair, and gave a slight nod. His own hand came up almost by force of a strange mechanism and shook hers dryly.

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine.

"Hello," he said in a grave, melodious voice. It was as if an old man was speaking through a boy's lips. Hermione had read about changelings, elf-children and goblin-cubs. They liked to eat the flesh, the bones and the soul. But those were silly stories. This was just a normal boy, nothing more. He had no claws, no sharp teeth, no pointed tail. Except, his eyes were fashioned like dark crystals.

She wanted to speak to him, but her mouth was sewn shut.

Her parents were talking excitedly. They held out several shopping bags. They were telling her about the new things they had bought Tom. Hermione couldn't hear them. His presence was so consuming that her ears seemed to be filled with cotton. She was frightened she may never understand human speech again.

But after a few moments, the noise became words again and she could breathe, because her parents had moved into the living room and dragged the boy with them, out of her sight.

Hermione stood next to the staircase and tried to regain her composure. She realized she must have looked very rude to the boy. It wasn't his fault her parents wanted a son. He was probably more afraid than her to be here. Suddenly, a great warmth filled up her heart to the brim. She felt pity for him. She wanted to comfort him.

She turned around, ready to smile and greet him properly, but she froze in her step. Her parents had their backs turned and couldn't see, but Tom was staring straight at her. His face was no longer expressionless. Instead, his blue eyes burned with malice, so strong and ferocious, she almost fell back. A twisted sneer had spread his lips into a grimace. Hermione had never seen a look of pure hatred before. He abhorred her, and he was keen to show it.

When her mother turned around, Tom's face melted into nothingness once more. He was the silent angel again.

"Hermione, dear, don't just stand there. Come here, and talk to your brother."

She didn't want to go near him. All she wanted to do was run up the stairs to her room, lock the door so he wouldn't get in, but she saw how his eyes sparked with a secret delight. He was _enjoying_ her dread. She couldn't run now.

Hermione swallowed her fear, hid it away in a secret part of herself. She couldn't let her parents know the horror that dwelled inside her. They looked so happy and hopeful. They thought they were giving her a wonderful gift. But she knew better. From this day on, her happy days were over. Small children understand no compromises. They only know life and death. Her new brother was going to try and destroy her, and she had to fight him, or else she'd perish.

* * *

The guest room wasn't quite ready for Tom yet. They wanted it to look like a little boy's room, complete with train sets and rubber soldiers and books with animals and exotic countries on their covers. So, for the first few nights, they set up a mattress in Hermione's room.

When she tried to protest, she was met with her father's disappointed glare and that quieted her on the spot. The last thing she wanted to do was let her parents down. She wanted to make them proud, and if accepting this boy in her vicinity was the only way, she would do it, even if it was going to hurt her.

"Your room is so big and spacious, you'll hardly notice it, darling."

Yet, when night came and she had to go to bed, the room felt too small and narrow for the both of them. They trudged up the stairs together after supper. He climbed up ahead of her with a confident gait. He had been perfectly polite and withdrawn during the meal, but now he seemed to take charge. Hermione liked to act mature, but Tom _was_ mature. He was the same age as her, and yet, if she were pressed to say, she'd give him at least three years on her. She hadn't managed to find out much about him. She knew he was called Tom Riddle, and her parents didn't want to force him to take the Granger name unless he wanted to. She also knew he had lived in an orphanage until now, which might have explained his behaviour, except that she had heard her parents whisper that he was a troubled, misunderstood child and hadn't gotten along with the other orphans. What she knew for a fact was that he didn't have a real mother and father anymore. That should have made her feel compassion, but it only frightened her more, because a child without parents was powerful and strange.

He surveyed her room with boredom. She couldn't tell if he liked it or not. It was probably better than the room he had had at the orphanage, but she knew that would be a rude thing to remark upon. He ignored her toys and dolls and stuffed animals and stopped at her thick shelves. So many books were crammed in those tiny spaces that he looked almost amazed for a moment. It was the only time Hermione saw something human in his eyes.

She wondered if he loved books too. He moved his finger over the titles feverishly. He seemed to want to take one out. Hermione felt her heart leap. What if they could bridge this awful gap between them? Wouldn't that be wonderful? They could read stories and play them out together. She had always wanted a friend like that. But when he realized she was watching him, he turned and gave her an ugly sneer. Her hopes were quickly dashed.

"This is all child's stuff. You're not very clever, are you?"

Hermione opened her mouth in shock. One thing she couldn't abide by was someone making fun of her brains. She was top of her class, top of her school, in fact.

"Most of my books are age 10 and up! I would say I'm very clever. And anyway, I've read more than _you_."

Tom raised his eyebrow in a mocking gesture. _You're lying_, he seemed to say.

"I have!" she insisted.

He curled his lips up in a smirk, but it only made him look more terrible. Hermione thought he would say something cruel, but he only shrugged, amused, and walked to his mattress. A clean pyjama was waiting for him there. Hermione watched him strip nonchalantly until he was completely naked. She wondered if children in orphanages were this carefree. She had never seen a naked boy before. She knew boys were different, but his anatomy startled her. Even after he covered himself, she couldn't erase the image from her mind.

Lest Tom think she was a _child_, she pretended not to give it too much importance. She grabbed her own nightdress and started for the door.

Before she could grab the knob, he was in front of her, blocking her path, a dark shadow on the sunny carpet.

"Excuse me, but I have to go to the bathroom," she said in a defensive tone.

"No, you don't. You can change here."

She heard the click of the lock behind him.

"I can just unlock it, you know," she said, growing impatient.

"Why don't you try," he challenged brazenly.

Hermione was going to enjoy this victory, small as it was. She twisted the knob and clicked the lock confidently... but it wouldn't budge. She tried again, nonplussed. It would not open. Hermione twisted harder, clicked twice, but the door remained shut.

Tom was watching her with absolute glee.

"What... did you do to it?" she asked warily. Her door never got stuck like this.

"Something you'll never be able to do," he said with venom.

"I'm going to call Mummy!" she warned.

"Do it and make a fool of yourself, little _brat_. Or...you can beg me to open it."

Hermione was appalled. She had never felt more humiliated in her life. She walked away from the door, feeling hot tears wetting her eyelashes.

"I won't beg," she said adamantly.

"Won't you? That's a shame. You'll be locked in here forever."

She whipped her head around to see if he was joking. But those terrible blue eyes pierced her to the bone. She looked down.

"You can't do that. Daddy can just tear down the door."

"Nothing and _no one_, except me, can let you out," he replied savagely.

"That's absurd!" she countered, wiping small tears from her eyes. "Any door can be opened."

_Unless..._ she thought. _Unless..._

He saw the doubt in her eyes. It was his triumph.

Hermione tasted bitterness in her mouth. Her heart ached. She had to breathe. She had to think of something nice. Her favorite book, _Heidi_. Yes, that would make her feel better. After all, Heidi had also been forced to live with someone she didn't like - a terrible and frightening grandfather - and she had survived and thrived. She had been happy. She could survive too.

Hermione walked to her bed and sat down, clutching her nightdress in her hand.

"Very well," she said in the tone she reserved for the slow children in her class.

She started unbuttoning her little dress. She rolled down her stockings slowly. She would rather be naked than beg.

Tom leaned against the door and watched her impassively. Hermione knew that if she tried to turn away or shield herself, she would lose.

She closed her eyes when she felt the cool air hit her skin. It wasn't proper for a young lady to bare her flesh for too long. The teachers at school had told her bad children went to hell. She thought Tom would probably go to that awful place, and she felt both guilty and relieved.

She slipped the nightdress over her shoulders, thankful that it was over.

"You are ugly and skinny," he remarked, when she finally met his eyes again.

Hermione would have felt hurt, but other girls had told her such things numerous times. She was not a pretty child. She squared her shoulders.

"So are you."

Tom narrowed his eyes. He didn't like it when she talked back. Hermione felt a stab of satisfaction. Of course, she had lied. Even she could see he was a handsome boy. It wasn't fair. In the stories she read, sometimes bad people looked nice, but they always got what they deserved. Would Tom be punished soon?

"I want your bed. I want to sleep in it," he announced all of a sudden.

She blinked, gathering her quilt in her tiny fists. "What do you mean?"

"Are you deaf? I want to sleep in the bed. You can sleep on the mattress."

"No. Daddy put that there for _you_."

"Yes. And I am telling you I am sleeping in the bed."

Hermione's cheeks burned red like flames. "You can't! It's not right."

"Why?"

"Because it's _my_ bed. It belongs to me."

"That's too bad. Your parents are going to be so disappointed when they hear you won't share with the poor orphan boy. They'll think you're mean and selfish."

"But I'm not –" she protested vehemently. "You're the one who is mean. You'll have your own room soon. Why can't you wait?"

"I don't want to. Now. Get off the bed and go sleep on the mattress."

Hermione rose angrily. "_No_."

She had to fight or perish. The rules were harsh, but simple. She wouldn't give up her bed.

Tom smiled a sinister smile. No child should be able to smile like that.

_He's not a child_, she thought viciously.

Before she could react, he was upon her. He pulled her hair and dragged her down to the floor. Hermione yelped in shock, but he was stronger and he had the element of surprise on his side. He managed to overpower her. Suddenly, she felt salt on her tongue. His hand was clasped over her mouth. She rolled underneath him helplessly. She had never been good at wrestling. When the girls at school fought she kept away from them. She thought they looked like animals, whereas she was a human girl.

But now, she would have liked to be an animal and snap back at him.

He was pinning her down with his body. She writhed under him and struggled for dear life, but his strength was almost unnatural. An eight-year old boy couldn't be this robust. Hermione felt panic rise up in her throat. She wondered if...if he was doing _it_ again, whatever he had done to the door. He really _was_ the child of an elf or goblin. Nothing else could explain it.

She screamed, but the sound came out muffled underneath his palm. She tried to bite him, but he kneed her in the ribs roughly and she closed her eyes in pain.

"You'd better get this through your thick skull, ugly brat. I am not like _you_. I am not like anyone else. I'm stronger, better. I will always be. If you obey me, I won't harm you."

Hermione's eyes widened. He towered over her like an angry demon, bathed silver in the moonlight seeping softly through her window. Tom Riddle wasn't going to hell. He had come from hell.

"Do you understand?" he asked in the same melodious voice he used on her parents.

Hermione wondered what would happen if she shook her head. Would he damage her beyond repair? But she nodded meekly.

He seemed satisfied with her defeat. He showed his sharp teeth in a ghastly grin.

Hermione had a sudden premonition. If she went down quietly now, this would be the rhythm of their future life for years to come. She would cower, he would triumph. She would never be able to escape his grasp. She would always be pinned down like this, waiting for his mercy.

Later she would call it a spirit that came from above and helped her strike. But one moment he was on top of her and the next thing she knew, he was jumping up as if burnt. And he had. He had been burnt.

She felt a warmth all over her. It had nothing to do with him. It was like fire glowing under her skin. It was soft, pleasant even.

Tom glanced at her wildly. He was discomposed for once, utterly taken by surprise. Hermione cherished the moment, short-lived as it was. He schooled his features into disdain immediately, but she could tell he was still shaken. He didn't know she had a fairy god-mother. That's what it was, she was sure.

Neither said a word. But Tom walked to her bed possessively and sat on it. Hermione was too tired to fight. She felt she was safe for now. Someone out there knew Tom Riddle was bad and was helping her. The thought comforted her, even though she obediently went and lay down on the mattress.

* * *

All night, Tom studied her, eyes unblinking, eyebrows scrunched up in anger, troubled by the thought that – that he might not be the only one, after all. It wasn't possible. This stupid girl lived in a plain, stupid house with plain, stupid parents. She was ordinary and dull.

It must have been _his_ magic. He had attacked himself by accident. He didn't always control it as he should.

That was the truth, the only truth he could accept.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, Tom told her parents about Hermione's "kind gesture".

"She wouldn't let me sleep on the mattress. She said I _must_ take her bed. I couldn't believe it...no one's ever been this nice to me," he trailed off sadly.

Hermione blushed furiously, but she couldn't help melting into her dad's soft caress. He ruffled her hair.

"That was very generous of you, darling. Well done."

"Yes, that is _just_ the thing to do," her mother approved. _We raised you well_, she seemed to say.

Hermione swallowed her dry toast. She could still feel the sting of last night's fight. Tom was the spitting image of a good boy, sitting in his chair, spreading marmalade over his toast quietly, watching them furtively, as if he was ashamed to stare. She knew better. She saw what he was. She couldn't believe her parents were so blind.

But there was no point trying to tell them the truth. Not when they were beaming down at her with such pride and affection. Tom was very clever. He had made sure she wouldn't talk. Perhaps it _was_ useless. After all, only she and Tom understood what was at stake. Adults could never grasp the significance of their confrontation.

Her heart beat fast. The future stretched in front of her grimly. But she remembered the strong spirit that had come to her aid the night before. She would pray to it, pray to that strange power to help her again. Only the supernatural could keep the demon-child at bay. Tom, at least, knew she had a protector. But those blue eyes, they promised to tear her to pieces.

* * *

**Hello and thanks for reading. I hope you found it interesting. I am fascinated with these two characters, but I don't like time-travelling stories. Please let me know if it strikes your fancy!**


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Her mother's sandwiches used to taste like warmth and home, but now it was as if someone had poured ash over them. It was odd, because every morning, her mother would cut the same slices and butter them with care, like always. And yet, her nose and tongue protested when she unpacked her lunch at school. She had heard mutterings from grown-ups about the country's economic "downfall", whatever that meant. Her dad had explained there was a food shortage, and some food was replaced with cheaper stuff that didn't taste very good.

But she knew, deep down, that her sandwiches had nothing to do with that.

It was Tom's fault.

She saw the complicit outlines of his smirk every time her mother packed their lunches. His eyes went slant with satisfaction as the knife cut through the loaf. As if he knew something she didn't. He always acted this way, about everything. At school, the girls called her a "know-it-all" because she liked to memorize the lessons and poems, but Tom had memorized the secrets of the _universe_. Nothing else could explain his superior attitude.

When her mother bent down to kiss them goodbye each morning and her lips touched Tom's forehead, Hermione gave an involuntary shudder. Cora Granger would run screaming if she knew she was kissing a demon boy. How could she get so close to him? How could she run her fingers through his hair and caress his cheeks without sensing what crawled underneath that pale skin? And when her mum looked into his eyes, did she not see the hardened frost there? He could have been the Snow Queen's child.

She was lucky boys were not allowed at Clapton Girls' Academy. Otherwise, he would be tormenting her during school hours too. Hermione had encountered the word "theatrical" in _Little Lord Fauntleroy_. She had worked out that it described someone who was exaggerating facts, making them look better or worse than they really were. But she _wasn't _being theatrical. Tom still hated her with an unnatural passion. Every moment of every day was a constant battle.

He had got his own room, and it was at the very end of the hallway, a diametrical opposite. She never went near it, but somehow, she kept running into him whenever she went to the bathroom or climbed downstairs to get a snack. He was there, wandering the halls, watching from behind his door, slinking back into the shadows before she could blink. The most she had seen of his room was the corner of a dark brown carpet. That could have been a trick of the light, though. As far as she knew, her parents had decorated his room with as much affection and colour as her own. Perhaps Tom just sucked all the joy out of it.

Sometimes, he made his presence felt by knocking into her sharply. No, not like some of the big girls did at school. He seemed to dance around her without purpose, almost like he didn't see her, but when she wasn't being careful, he would give her the ghost of a wound. She never felt the sharp jab of his elbow in her ribs, but minutes later, when she returned to her room, the spot underneath her heart would hurt. She never felt the bruise from where his foot "accidentally" hit her shin, but days later, the skin would still be yellow.

Her parents thought she was acting up. She should have already "warmed up" to her brother. She noticed her father's long stares when she evaded Tom's request to play outside, or when she politely rejected Tom's offer to try the old train-set Henry Granger had inherited from his own father. Tom always looked puzzled and forlorn when she drew away, but when her dad left the room in disappointment, his mouth twitched in cruel amusement.

She had tried playing with him outdoors the very first week of his arrival. He had ignored her the whole time. Hermione had initially been relieved when he had turned his back on her and marched to the end of the garden path. That relief soon ended when he decided to climb over the small fence and disappear. Before Hermione could stop him, he was off exploring the neighbouring streets. He was not athletic, but he was far more agile than her. His body seemed to have been forced into growth too quickly and his limbs were already adapted to flight. Was orphan life so dreary, she wondered? Hermione had tried to follow him, because she knew her parents would be mad if Tom wandered the neighbourhood alone, but she soon lost track of him.

She called out his name several times in vain.

"Tom! Tom! _Tom Riddle_!"

She even knocked on Mrs. Pembridge's door - the sharp-eyed crone who spied on everyone that crossed her street - and inquired after him. But even _she_ hadn't seen him. When she had returned to the house, terrified of what her parents would say, but shamefully hopeful that maybe Tom was gone for good, he was waiting for her there, sitting on the little sofa in the parlour.

"We would very much like to know where you have _been_ all this time, Hermione Jean Granger," her mother spoke crisply. "Poor Tom was worried sick. He ran back here when he couldn't find you."

She had been punished to go without dessert that night, but she remained stoic in the face of injustice. That is, until they were both upstairs. Before he skulked back into his room, she tapped him on the shoulder angrily and pulled on the sleeve of his new sweater.

Tom turned on her with annoyance.

"What do _you_ want?"

"Don't pretend you don't know. You can lie to my parents, but not to me. _Where_ did you go?"

"Is it any of your business?"

"Yes, it _is_, when you get me in trouble."

"Let go of my arm or you'll find out."

Hermione eased her grip, but did not remove her fingers. "Next time you run off like that, I'm not going to look for you, and I hope you get lost and can't find your way back. That will teach you."

Tom pretended to give a yawn. "Is that all?"

Hermione blushed. "You won't _always_ get away with lying."

The demon boy only chuckled. "Don't worry, Sister. I got you a gift from my trip to make it up to you."

Hermione was shocked momentarily by the epithet he had used, which gave him enough time to wrench his arm away. Before she knew it, he had crept down the hallway into his room.

Resigned, she retired to her own room. Hermione's thick volume of fairy-tales was waiting for her on the bedside table, just as she had left it. It would be a comfort to read from it tonight. She noticed there was a small bulge in the middle that hadn't been there before. When she opened the tome, she found a myriad of grey-brown feathers stuck between the pages.

At first, she was simply startled by their bizarre appearance. But when she touched them and looked at them more closely, she saw that they were caked in dried blood. And there were so _many_ of them. Too petrified to scream, she dropped the heavy book and the feathers went flying on the floor.

_The body. Where is the body?_

If that foul boy had left her the feathers, then the poor bird's corpse was somewhere hidden in the room. Wild with panic and terror, she started ransacking her bed. She threw away the covers and tried lifting the mattress. She propped it up with several books and felt underneath it with her fingers for – she shuddered in horror– a lump of meat. She found nothing.

_It could be anywhere._

The thought made her dizzy and nauseous.

She pulled out her drawers, turned over her chest of toys, even rolled up the carpet. Fat tears escaped her eyelashes from time to time, but she wiped them away quickly, too frightened to cry when there was death in her room.

She spent hours running over her possessions, quietly and methodically. She combed each spot twice, scrutinizing it with frenzy, lest she had missed something. She turned her fear into an obsession. She could see a pair of hands in her mind, could see them smothering a helpless creature. She kept looking.

When the first signs of dawn entered her room, she was exhausted, but empty-handed. The absence only unnerved her more.

_He hid it somewhere I can't find. _

The feathers were still spread haphazardly on the floor, next to her bed.

She wanted to hurt him, hurt him badly, just like he had hurt this innocent little thing. She wanted to slap him so hard that he would weep. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. She kicked the floor with her feet and clenched her fists until they hurt.

And then, she sat down on the floor and started thinking, something she was wont to do during a predicament. Hermione had been bullied before. Too many times to count. And she had found anger and violence to be pointless in such cases. You didn't win by kicking and screaming. She had learned that at school. She bit into her lip so hard it drew blood.

Suddenly, she got an idea. A very clever idea.

She went to her tiny desk and rummaged through it until she found what she needed.

The next day at breakfast, Tom watched her entrance avidly. He was hungry for her tear-splotched cheeks, hungry for her haggard, sleepless face. He could not wait to see himself in her pain. But instead, Hermione skipped down the stairs like she always did and sat down in her chair with the same serene, but guarded expression she exhibited each morning.

He presumed she was bluffing, putting on a brave face. Until she pulled out a sheet of paper from her schoolbag.

"Mum, Dad, look at what Tom made for me last night. He left it in my room. I think he felt bad I was punished."

Cora and Henry Granger stretched their necks to see. Their faces suddenly lit with surprise.

"Oh, Tom, you made this lovely thing for your sister?"

They turned towards him with delight. Tom's colour drained from his face, little that was there. Hermione pushed the paper towards him.

A myriad of feathers, strewn with paper flowers and paper leaves, were glued in the shape of a heart on the paper. It was badly made, something a boy with little inclination for such girlish things would conceive. It was perfect in that way.

Even he had to admire the deftness of her move.

_Two can play this game_.

But it was a small victory, one she had had to pay in bitter tears. The corpse could still _be_ somewhere in her room.

"I'm glad you liked my gift, Hermione. I'll make you _many_ more," he had vouched with sweet spite.

He had kept his word.

Until now, she had been the only one to play with her dad's old train-set. She cleaned it, oiled it and spent hours tinkering with it, trying to figure out how it worked. When Tom saw her sprawled on the living room floor one afternoon, he decided to have his revenge. She didn't hear him walk up to her. She was completely engrossed in her little wagons. So, when his hand sank into her hair, she thought it was her father, who liked to watch and caress her when she played with the train.

"Hello, Sister. Do you want to go for a ride?"

He turned on the train and her head was suddenly wrenched with the moving wagons. He had tangled her locks between the wheels. He had done it so efficiently and on such short notice, that before she could even lift her head, her cheek got scratched and her scalp burned as the hairs were ripped from her head. She cried out in pain and struggled madly to disentangle her locks, but she could do nothing until the train stopped.

When her parents rushed into the room in alarm, they found Tom crouching over Hermione, trying to soothe her as he pulled out the strands from underneath the wheels. The wagons were scattered on the floor. The train-set would need fixing. And a fistful of her hair was gone too. But at least, Tom reasoned, she was safe.

"You won't be mad, will you? I had to do it to save her."

They weren't mad. Not with him, not with her either. But from that day on, they wouldn't let Hermione play with the train-set alone anymore. Tom was the one in charge of it now, as "young boys should be", Henry Granger had proclaimed.

Thus it was a constant struggle, a constant string of victories and defeats. Hermione tried to fight back and Tom would take something away from her. It was a slippery walk on the edge of perdition. But she knew no other way.

Now, as she unwrapped her stale lunch and tried to forget it was no longer filled with the love she once knew, she wondered what he was doing at the boy's grammar school. Was he just as horrid and malicious with the other boys as he was with her? Or did he reserve this treatment solely for her? Did the others realize he was vile? Adults may be fooled, but surely, children could tell.

She knew he got good marks. Her parents had been proud to announce he was among the best in his year.

"The teachers say there are a few blanks in his knowledge, but that's only because he never got a proper education before. Now that's all fixed and he's catching up very quickly," Cora had explained with affection for her "smart young man".

Hermione didn't want to feel sour about it. Once upon a time, she had been the only star-pupil in the household. Now, there seemed to be two. Or maybe just one. Maybe just Tom. It wasn't that they weren't proud of her anymore, but the new child was a novelty and every good thing he did was a fresh delight. Whereas they had got used to her. When she came home with an accomplishment, it wasn't the same. They expected her to do more.

They expected her to like Tom. And that was one thing she could never do. She had once succeeded in reading seven chapters of _Moby Dick_ on a dare, but if you told her to befriend the demon boy who loved to torture her, she would give up from the start. She already had.

* * *

_Two years later (1936)_

They were both ten now, and almost done with the first stage in their schooling. Hermione was not worried. There was no chance her parents would send them to one of the new mixed schools. They still believed in proper gender division. It was scandalous enough that her mother was employed as a dental assistant in her father's private practice. The Grangers did not wish to be seen as rebellious or modern. Hermione was safe. All she had to do was keep the front at home and wait out the years until Tom left for Eton. Her parents thought he had very good chances.

She hankered after those blissful future years when she would be the only child again. Her escape might be complete. After all, Tom would probably go to Cambridge or Oxford after that, and only return for the holidays. He might get a position somewhere fast and leave for good, since he bore her parents no love. She could hope.

_She_ would go to University College of London. And then she would travel to France and write poetry and visit all the pretty libraries in Paris. And all these things she would accomplish without Horrible Tom.

The only thing that pressed on her mind was the strange presence inside her that still made itself felt from time to time. She remembered vividly the first night it had appeared, the night Tom had tried to take her bed. He might have bested her, but she had fought him back with a power that had come from within.

At first she had believed it was a fairy god-mother, or a benevolent spirit who wanted to protect her from the demon boy. But as the months passed and she found herself _doing_ things that weren't right or _possible_, she began to have doubts. For one thing, these powers didn't always happen when Tom was trying to harm her. One night, she had stared at her lamp for too long and the light bulb had cracked, leaving her in darkness. Another time, she had made the sinks at school all start at once without touching them. And she had _twice _moved her chair forward with her _mind_ when she had wanted to see the blackboard better. It was _insane_. She was old enough now to realize there might not be any benevolent spirits in the universe, or fairy god-mothers, for that matter. She began to suspect it was Tom's fault. These powers had emerged with his arrival. What if he had made her ill? What if he had given her this sickness?

Because _he_ could certainly do many of these impossible things. She didn't know if he could move objects with his mind or break things without touching them, but whenever he played a nasty trick on her, she could never tell _how_ he had done it.

What was worse, she didn't completely _hate_ these powers. She even found herself revelling in them, when her mind was not paying attention. She liked to think she wasn't like all the girls in her school, that she was special. But hadn't Tom said the same thing? That he could do things others couldn't? Therefore, it was wrong to enjoy this. It was _wrong_ to think like Tom. If he really was contagious, what if she had got his evilness? What if she became awful too?

For this reason, the future in which he was gone could not come soon enough. Once he left home, she might be healed. She might turn back to normal. Of course, she _wouldn't_ miss her powers. Not at all.

For now, she only had to deal with him at meal-times, or in the afternoons, if her parents wanted them to do their school work together. But Cora and Henry would be checking their progress. They were rarely alone with each other. She made it her purpose not to be.

And then a very dreadful thing happened. Her parents started working late. They could no longer be back home by the time she and Tom returned from school.

"Daddy and Mummy need to make more money, loves."

Old, brother-less Hermione would have accepted her parents explanation without fear or anxiety, but she was no longer that girl. She saw a black hole stretching in front of her, endlessly. The black hole of her and Tom. Alone.

But the worse was yet to come.

"London is no longer as safe as it used to be, darlings. I'm sure there's been talk in your schools too. We don't want to scare you, but there have been strikes and ambushes across town, things grown-ups start when they get very angry. There have also been rumours of war...silly rumours, of course, but they make people do strange things. In any case, we need to stand together as a family. We can drive you both to school in the morning, but it's going to be difficult in the afternoon. So...we've decided that you will return home together. Your schools aren't far away from each other and we'd rather you walked back together. It's safer that way. Tom can wait for you at one of the stops, or...would you mind waiting for your sister outside the Academy, Tom?"

If Tom was displeased with this new obligation, he betrayed nothing. He nodded obligingly. "Not at all."

Hermione tried to worm her way out of it. "I could walk home with Bertha. She lives a couple of blocks away. I would be safe with her too." Her school friend may have been boring, but she preferred listening to her inane stories a million times over spending one more moment with him.

"Bertha is smaller than you. Tom is stronger, and he's a very good brother, isn't he? Wouldn't you rather walk home with him?"

"I – yes, but I'm sure he'd rather walk with his friends." Although she wasn't sure he had any to begin with. "Boys don't like to be seen with girls."

Tom frowned and spoke in a sweet, saccharine voice:

"I'm _not_ like other boys. Come on, Hermione. I'm sure we'll have a lot of _fun_ together."

His words made her skin crawl. He looked perfectly earnest, like he actually expected to enjoy his time. Because he _did_. His eyes were wide and wistful, already concocting some beloved torture for her.

She swallowed the knot in her throat. It wouldn't go down.

"Thanks, Tom. I'm sure we will."

* * *

**Hello again. Thanks for reading and reviewing, I didn't expect so many of you, but I'm very grateful! Thank you to the anonymous reviewers Jessica, Guest1, 123lamiko, fspsarcastic, Guest2 and Anon (that was a very interesting comment, thanks!). I hope the pacing isn't too slow, but I want to develop their dynamic a bit more before they get to Hogwarts. Let me know.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

"Hermione, who is that boy looking at you?" Elspeth asked with an arch in her voice that meant nothing good. She usually talked like this when Hermione refused to let her copy her homework. Hermione wasn't afraid of her, but nasty things happened to people who opposed or displeased Elspeth Reginald. They were climbing down the steps of Clapton Girls' Academy, and Elspeth was looking straight across the road at a figure leaning against a lamppost.

_Tom_.

Hermione recognized him even before looking. His presence had a way of disturbing the peace of the sky and the leaves and the short walk between the school and the street. Her universe was always fraught with danger.

"Oh, that's…that's my brother."

Even after two years of forced kinship, it felt wrong to spell it out. It sounded like a bad word, the kind that was scribbled on the back of a park bench. So far, the girls at school had not been very keen to hear about the orphan sibling. She would've liked for it to remain that way, but seeing as he was charged with walking her home, that was about to change. For better or worse.

Ten was a cruel age for a child. Half-formed, growing, yet stilted, he or she was stuck in the purgatory of pubescence. Not Tom. Never Tom. He already looked grown-up. He was only shrunk, waiting for the right moment to sprout out of the ground and take charge of his own body.

Dark curls of hair fell into his eyes, hooding him from the world. He was handsome, in a wrong time, in a wrong place. An awful kind of handsome, but handsome all the same.

And Hermione could sense that Elspeth was staring at him like he was a prized object.

"What's he doing here, then?"

"We're going home together," Hermione explained uneasily.

"Oh…he's so sweet. Wish I had a brother. You're so lucky, Granger."

Hermione couldn't help the small smile that graced her lips. _Take him, Elspeth, please. He's all yours._

"You should introduce me. We should all walk together," Elspeth suggested with an authoritative toss of her head.

Hermione considered saying no and risk incurring the girl's wrath. But then she thought better of it. She had never seen Tom with other children. She wondered if he could keep up the façade with someone his age. It was worth trying.

"Sure. Be my guest."

She could already see the penumbra coming over Tom's features as both she and Elspeth crossed the street towards him. _Good_, she thought vindictively.

"Tom, this is my classmate, Elspeth," Hermione began quickly, leaving him no chance to talk his way out of it. "Elspeth, this is my brother, Tom _Riddle_."

She made sure she pronounced the last name quite clearly. No mistake about his belonging. She was not sorry. Only she knew what she would have to bear when they got home.

Tom's eyes flared with malice, a red film barely concealed by a poised, blank face. Hermione waited with bated breath.

"Hello, Elspeth. It's nice to meet you. Will you shake hands?"

Tom Riddle offered his hand quite amicably. Hermione snorted to herself. He sounded like an old man. Of course, he was playing nice now, but very soon…

Elspeth gave a faint reply and extended her palm. Riddle did not flinch. He grabbed her hand and held it in his own, without shaking it. Hermione saw him apply soft pressure to her fingers. It looked as if he was weighing a precious charge. Elspeth was perturbed. She wanted her hand back, but then again, she didn't. Tom flashed her a cold, but radiant smile. Elspeth blushed to the very roots of her hair.

"You're very pretty. Sorry! I know boys aren't allowed to say such things," Tom spoke quickly, making a convincing display of rueful shyness.

"Oh! That's – thank you. Boys are _so_ immature, aren't they?" Elspeth replied, very much flustered. The blush was turning a nasty maroon.

Hermione watched the scene unfolding before her with revulsion and fascination. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but Tom had nothing to gain by befriending her schoolmate. Adults were necessary, but children his age were expendable. Sooner or later, his true colours would come out.

"Elspeth is walking with us," Hermione intervened sensibly.

"Just up to Downing street," Elspeth confessed, absorbed by Tom.

It had only taken two minutes. Hermione sighed to herself. Maybe something interesting would happen on the road. Maybe - just maybe - Tom would betray himself a little.

But who would notice?

Only her.

"Well, isn't there a saying about the more the merrier? Shall we?" Tom urged with cheerful politeness.

The three turned left down the road and the red-stoned Academy disappeared from view. Elspeth insinuated herself next to Tom. They walked a little ahead of Hermione, which was actually very convenient for her. She could be alone with her thoughts and free of Tom. These days, that was her idea of heaven.

It was far too early to hope, but if Tom had such a draw on Elspeth, surely he could charm the other girls too. Maybe they wouldn't have to walk alone very often. Maybe…

Elspeth was obviously taken with Tom already. She was buoyantly telling him about the Academy and her family. And anybody who knew Elspeth also knew she was rarely 'buoyant'. She would enjoy spending time with the demon boy. He was well-behaved with her.

Hermione was oddly disappointed, though. She had hoped he would be less in control around children. She had thought he would make a mistake. There was still time for that, but by the looks of it, they were getting on well, or at least Tom was nodding his head politely while Elspeth talked her mouth off.

_She's a nice girl_, Hermione thought, _when she likes someone. But he doesn't like anyone. I know it._

At length, she removed a book from her schoolbag and started flipping through it surreptitiously. Its covers were hidden by a non-descript leather jacket. She had got it from a girl in year 8 whose father was a historian. It had been an exchange; Hermione had written her an essay on _The Three Musketeers_ and the girl had given her a very special book. _The Magic Art and the Evolution of Kings_, by Sir James George Frazer. Only the first volume in an anthology of the occult. A terrible, wondrous thing. Hermione's breath still hitched in her throat whenever she read about the strange rituals and the unseemly things people did for power. It turned her blood cold when she read about human sacrifice, but it also made her heart beat faster. It turned her blood even colder to know that she could… _do _some of the things these tribes sought with tooth and nail.

What did that say about her, or Tom? Words like _blasphemy_ and _savage_ echoed in the chambers of her head. _Shaman_ and _sorcerer_ also dwelled somewhere in a dark crevice of her consciousness. But there was a special one, a special title. And she was deadly afraid of it. _Wi…_

Every time she thought about it, she just wanted to shut her mind off and read more.

"Hermione? Didn't Mum say something about getting her some cleaning soda?"

At first she did not register the voice or where it was coming from. It was such a mundane sentence in comparison to what she was reading. Then she looked up and Tom was standing right before her, so close that his chest was touching her book. She snapped it shut quickly. She _really_ should have been more careful. Elspeth was a good distraction but Tom was ever watchful. She couldn't tell how much he had seen, but his face betrayed nothing. It was smooth and innocent.

"Sorry?"

"She specifically told me not to forget. Come on, you know the type she likes. Elspeth, do excuse us. We'll be right back."

Hermione only managed to see half of Elspeth nervous smile as she was dragged into a small apothecary. Her senses were flooded with Tom as he pulled her after him to the back of the shop. There, between rows of ointments and funny-smelling jars, he pressed her up against the wooden shelves. Gone was the innocence. No trace of gentleness in his movements. But Hermione was not all that surprised. She was only momentarily dazed by their proximity.

"Get rid of that bint or I'll make her swallow her own tongue."

The first thought that ran into her head was _What's a bint? Nothing good probably. _

She should have been more worried about the second part of his statement.

"If you're talking about Elspeth, she's a _good_ friend and I suggest you behave. You've done it so far."

Tom sneered. "Good friend. Your lies are bigger than your front teeth."

Hermione put a hand to her mouth. "My teeth are none of your business, and anyway, you can't _make_ her swallow her tongue."

"Oh, can't I?" he smirked impishly.

"_No_," she replied, trying hard to believe her own words. "No matter how strong you think you are, you can't do that." _Yet_. "Just act normal and she'll go away. And by normal, I mean stop trying to charm her."

Tom scoffed. "It's not my fault everyone is a gullible idiot."

"But it _is_ your fault for leading them on! If you hate people so much, why do you want them to like you?" she asked perplexed.

She could've sworn she saw a dim, sad flicker in his eyes, but it was gone before she had the chance to register it properly.

"What a stupid question. _Everyone_ wants people to like them. When they like you, they do things for you; they give you what you want. Stop being a daft little girl."

"If I'm a daft little girl, why'd you run into this shop like a coward?" Hermione challenged.

Tom's countenance turned foul. She had trodden on eggshells and they had broken.

He grabbed her wrist roughly and twisted it painfully, until she almost moaned. But Hermione would not give him the satisfaction. She gritted her teeth and looked up into his dead eyes.

"You want her to leave? Get rid of her yourself, _Riddle_."

Tom's lips curved into a terrifying smile. "Is that a challenge?"

Hermione's heart stopped beating. His eyes turned inwardly, as if he was already thinking of ways to remove Elspeth Reginald.

Hermione shook her head.

"I meant you should get rid of her with _words_. Preferably kind ones."

"It doesn't take a rough word to make someone scream," he commented matter-of-factly. "It only takes a special _way_ of saying it."

Hermione bit her lip in frustration. "Enough. You _can't_ do anything harmful. If you hurt her, the police will find out. Her parents will track you down. You'll go to jail. And your life will be over."

Tom cocked his head to the side. "You'd be on cloud nine, wouldn't you, _Sis_?"

_Yes, Tom. I'd be so happy to see you where you belong._

Instead, she said, "I'd be happier if you let go of my hand and stopped talking nonsense."

"I'm warning you -"

"And I said get off!" She stepped on his foot hard and pushed him away. Tom winced and cursed under his breath. He had knocked his elbow against a box of laundry powder blue and had got some of it on his sweater.

Hermione couldn't help a small giggle erupting from her lips.

He gave her a black look. "You know you're going to pay."

"_Of course_. What else should I expect?" Hermione drawled angrily, putting up more of a brave front than she felt. Because at home, the walls couldn't protect her.

"Tell your _friend_ to piss off, or you'll suffer."

Hermione felt bile rise up in her throat. She didn't like this sort of language. She had heard it in passing, while driving in the car with her dad. Someone on the street would shout something obscene and she'd try to forget it. _Where_ had Tom learned such things?

And then, a rather brilliant idea struck her.

"Give it your best. But I'll ask Elspeth to walk with us every day. I'm sure she'd just love it."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't."

"I don't have much to lose."

"You're bluffing."

"I'm _not_. And I'll extend her the invitation…unless we reach an agreement. For example, you leave me alone for three months."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You're not honestly trying to bargain with _me_."

Hermione lifted her chin in defiance. "And what if I am? Do you accept?"

Tom's face twitched dangerously. "One month."

"Three," she repeated adamantly.

"One."

"Three."

"_One_."

Hermione heaved a sigh. Better something than nothing. "_Fine_. Do we have a deal?"

Tom inclined his head an inch. It was good enough for her. Hermione didn't dare smile or revel in the glory. She now had to think of a way to drive away one of the most popular girls in school.

Her 'darling brother' nudged her in the ribs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Cleaning soda, remember?"

* * *

"That took you forever!" Elspeth exclaimed disapprovingly, but in good fashion, she smiled at Tom and waved the whole thing off, although Hermione knew from experience how much she hated waiting.

"I'm sorry, Elspeth. Hermione loves to browse."

Hermione shot him a look.

"Well you do, _Sis_."

Elspeth saw that Tom was carrying a rather heavy bottle in a paper bag. "Here, let me help."

Hermione doubled up. Elspeth Reginald, helping! Someone call the Red Cross. She didn't know what to think of this new side of her. She wished Elspeth could be this nice all the time. Why did people show their good sides to someone as awful as Tom?

"Thank you, but you needn't bother. Actually, I think you'd better go your own way, Elspeth," Tom said in a distressed voice.

Hermione snapped her head up. _What_ was he doing?

"What do you mean?"

"Please, don't be upset. It's just that Hermione told me you're not very nice to her at school and I'd rather not be friends with someone who doesn't like my sister."

He said it all in such an honest, heartfelt manner that even Hermione had to give him credit for it. That is, if she remembered to close her mouth. The shock had rendered her speechless.

"What? No! That's not true! Gra – I mean, Hermione, why would you say that?" Elspeth protested, growing red for entirely different reasons now.

"Elspeth, Tom exaggerated, that's not what I said at all –"

"Come on, '_Mione_. She deserves to know you don't like her. And why should you, if she's not being nice?"

Hermione wanted to sock him until she erased that stupid smug face. She wanted to pummel him right there in the street. She didn't care what anyone would say.

"I _do_ like you, Elspeth. Tom is lying, because he doesn't want to walk with you –"

But as soon as she said the words, she realized she had just made it worse.

Elspeth looked like she was about to cry. "That's awful, Hermione! _You're_ awful! I never wanted to walk with you anyway!"

"Don't blame her, Elspeth. I'm the one who caused the argument, I just think we should all be honest," Tom said, putting on a regretful mien.

"It's not _you_, Tom. I've always known Hermione is jealous of me. Well, fine then! See you at school, Granger."

Hermione realized what those last words meant. _See you at school…_

_Oh, God._

With that, Elspeth turned around and stomped in the opposite direction, brushing off what may have been tears from her eyes.

When they were alone once again, Tom tapped her on the shoulder.

"Very sensitive that one, isn't she?"

"You – you horrible little –" Hermione began in a fit of anger. "Do you know what you've done?!"

Tom laughed. "_Obviously_. What? Did you _really_ think I could go a month without torturing you? This way, I can have my cake and eat it too."

"You didn't have to drag her into this!"

"_You_ did, when you introduced her."

"You are vile! You don't deserve family or friends! What you _really_ deserve is to go back to that orphanage!"

Tom stopped laughing.

"A little late for that."

"You think you're safe because it's been two years?" she replied coldly, fury guiding her words. "They'll pack your bags and send you off once they realize _what_ you are."

Tom was eerily calm. "Don't make threats you can't fulfill."

"I don't _have_ to, Tom. You'll do it to yourself. One day, you'll show them. You can't fake it forever."

Tom chuckled, releasing a short breath of air. He pinched her chin in faux-affection.

"That's all right. I have an outlet. I can be myself with _you_, Hermione."

She shivered with revulsion. "And what makes you think I'll always be around? Soon, you'll be sent to boarding school and I'll get rid of you."

Tom parted his lips briefly. His handsome face took on a strange, detached air. The lights were on, but no one was home.

"Oh, don't lose any sleep on that. I'll find a way. I'll find you."

Hermione flinched. "You won't. You'll be miles away. And when I'm old enough, I'll move to another country and we'll never see each other again."

Tom cast a glance down the road and shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Doesn't matter what you'll do. _I'll find you_."

Hermione scoffed, but it was a poor performance. She knew about curses and what they could do to people. They could ruin lives. The books of the occult said the curse could be a human person. And maybe that's what he was.

The walk to the house was relatively quiet after that. Hermione felt bad about Elspeth, but altogether worse about herself. She hated Tom, there was no doubt about that. She had hated him from the beginning, but every day, her hate grew exponentially. He was constantly finding new ways to make her life impossible. And now, Elspeth would do just that at school.

Perhaps the only way to get rid of this awful curse was to perform a human sacrifice, like in Sir James George Frazer's books.

But the only person she knew who'd have the foul courage to do such thing was walking next to her.

* * *

Afternoons at home without her parents were a test of endurance. Tom had her for himself for three whole hours. In that infinite amount of time, Hermione could only tiptoe around the edge and hope she wouldn't fall. Sometimes, she fought back. Other times, she tried to ignore him. The latter infuriated him more than the former. Usually, if he was in a good mood, he'd go along with whatever strategy she had chosen, until it became an exhausting game of cat and mouse. The disturbing thing was, he played the mouse sometimes.

Her parents thought it was natural, healthy sibling rivalry. When they came home, they only found the few, scattered remnants of a fight. Sometimes, they found no remains of an altercation, but Hermione would greet them at the door and try and tell them what had happened without much success. She usually started well.

"Tom wouldn't let me do my homework."

"What did he do?"

"He kept talking about this stupid snake he found in the back yard. He wanted me to touch it."

"I just wanted 'Mione to meet my pet snake. Is that so bad? He's not poisonous, I promise. I'd never hurt her," Tom would defend himself with big, sad eyes.

Truly, he wanted her to do more than touch it. And she could not tell her parents, because they would most likely laugh at the idea, but he wanted her to _listen_ to the snake. Because apparently the snake could talk to him.

He was dead serious.

"The snake told me how you're going to die."

"Stop it! It did not."

"It's a _he_, and he said you're going to drown. You're going to get water in your lungs and sink to the depths of the ocean."

Hermione knew he'd only gotten this idea because some weeks before, she had fallen asleep in the bathtub and had woken up crying and sputtering water. But all the same, no one liked being told they'd drown.

"Tell your stupid snake he's not going to live that long if he keeps talking that way," she countered viciously.

Tom laughed. "I'd like to see you try."

Hermione didn't really believe there _was_ any snake, either way. He had probably just found a worm, or something equally disgusting.

But one afternoon, she and Tom were taking down the dried clothes from the laundry rack outside when she saw something slither in the laundry basket. It took her a couple of moments to figure it out. She was _sure_ he had put it there.

She didn't scream. It wasn't a very big snake. It was, in fact, small and rather weak-looking. Still, it gave her chills, the way it slinked and hissed. She dropped the table cloth and stepped back.

"Don't be rude, '_Mione_. Say hello," Tom beckoned behind her.

Hermione closed her eyes. "You're being ridiculous. I told you snakes don't understand language."

Tom approached the serpent and crouched down. She couldn't hear much of what he was saying, but it sounded like he was…hissing? She wanted to laugh. Was he _really_ trying to talk to it?

"You're wasting your time –"

But before she could finish the sentence, the snake started rising up from the laundry basket. She had once seen prints of a magic show in one of her mother's magazines. A man in a turban played the flute to a cobra and the cobra rose into the air, dancing. This was nothing like that. It was _stranger_. Because the snake rose and blinked and looked straight at her. And then, it bowed its head.

Tom smiled serenely. "See? He's got more manners than you."

Hermione froze. Her fists shook with the pain of clenching her fingers. She felt sick to her stomach.

"It's a trick," she said quickly.

"A very good one, I imagine," Tom said triumphantly. He hissed once more to the snake and the creature slithered down from the basket and started gliding towards her.

Hermione stepped back. "What is it doing?"

"Getting to know you," Tom replied with a devilish smirk.

She gulped. This wasn't a trick. It was one of the horrible, special things the demon boy could do. Things that she, too…_No_.

"_Fine_. I believe you and your stupid snake. Now tell him to back off."

"He won't bite…if you stand still," Tom murmured softly, almost fondly.

"Tell him to leave me alone or I'll hurt him," she threatened, growing warm with anticipation and fear.

"He'll get angry if you do that. I wouldn't make him angry," he advised sinisterly.

Hermione scowled. "It's just a small snake. He can't really _harm_ me."

"Well…I can make him bite your throat. That'll sting you quite a bit. But if you do what I say, he won't do anything."

The snake was now advancing more quickly. He had reached her leather black shoes. He was circling her with some mysterious design. Hermione swallowed.

"Have it your way."

She was going to stomp her feet on the ground to scare the creature off. And then she was going to pick up the table cloth and smother it, until its tail stopped wriggling. The books didn't just speak of human sacrifice. There was animal sacrifice too. She would hate it, but the poor thing was better off without Tom's control. It wasn't her _fault_, after all.

What came out instead was vastly different.

A strange current ran through her, like the time she had put her fingers in the electric socket. She hit the ground with her feet and the whole back yard vibrated. A wave of energy bent the grass in half and threw the snake several feet into the air.

The creature collapsed on the ground several moments later.

Hermione ran.

She didn't look back to see Tom's reaction, or check if the snake was dead. She turned around and fled inside the house, heart pounding, throat dry as dust. She climbed up the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, feet stepping on needles. She needed to get to her room, needed to lock the door behind her, needed to keep him out…and pray…or cry…or…

She was not fast enough.

He was on her before she reached her room. Fingers knotting in her hair, pulling hard. He pushed her up against the wall. For a moment, she saw stars.

"_Thief_," he spat, his face contracted in rage. It was a rare thing to see him so discomposed. She didn't cherish the sight.

"You slimy little thief," he repeated with cold fury. "You think you can steal my magic and use it for your own benefit, do you?"

Hermione gaped.

"What –"

The blood rushed to her ears. _Magic, magic, magic…_ It was out in the open.

"Don't play dumb. You're my inferior in every way, but you're clever, I'll give you _that_. Now, tell me how you're taking my magic and I won't crush you into tiny pieces."

His whole body was focused on pinning her down, making it hard for her to breathe. His hands reached to her throat.

"What if I have my own – my own magic?" she countered, feeling dizzy with the rush of adrenaline.

"_Impossible_."

"Why?" she shot back, growing more anxious and angry by the minute. "Why do _you_ get to be the brilliant and amazing one?! I deserve to have magic just as much as you! No! I deserve it more, because I'd use it right! I actually _care_ about this - this power. You just use it for your own whims. You don't respect it, which only goes to show you're the inferior one!"

Hermione would have been horrified by Tom's deathly glare. The light in his eyes was scalding white. An anger that went beyond the physical. But she was distracted, consumed by her own words and what they implied. She hadn't voiced these feelings before. She was terrified and elated. She wanted to shout and sing, but she also wanted to hide in shame. She was _happy_.

_I have my own magic._

But her wandering thoughts were sorely curtailed when she felt pressure on her windpipe. His touch was mean and cold and cruel. Long fingers breaking bone. The air was growing thin in her lungs.

_You're going to get water in your lungs and sink to the depths of the ocean._

She panted and choked. "Maybe…you're… the thief…stealing _my_ magic."

Tom's grip froze. His movements slacked for a moment.

"_No_. I had my powers long before I met you."

"But – but they weren't as strong, were they?"

She had no idea what had compelled her to say this. Madness, sheer madness. In fact, the thought had only now been born in her head. A malevolent spirit had planted it there.

_No. No spirit. Just me._

The conviction was so strong inside her that she almost smiled, although she was choking.

Tom released her, stepping back in a daze. His face was marked by her words.

_You were weaker before me._

Hermione had to lean against the wall in order not to fall. Her knees were weak. She coughed and wheezed, but did not falter. She regained her breath by degrees.

She waited for Tom to rail against her, and make her regret her words. She waited for a denial. But – but she soon saw he was not going to do anything.

His rage was gone, his eyes bereft of spark. But his face was white. And he was trembling.

"Tom?"

Her voice was soft. Perhaps it shouldn't have been, but he was shaking badly. He didn't answer. It was almost as if she weren't there. But of course she was, because she was quite sure she was the reason he was shaking. He turned around wordlessly and walked to his room. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock.

Hermione blinked.

She touched her throat gingerly. His faint imprints were still there. But the monster had locked himself away from his victim. He was afraid.

Hermione stepped on the carpet, her feet not making a sound. She walked down the forbidden hallway, the path she had always dreaded. She reached his closed door. Behind it, the demon boy sat and wept. At least, that was the image she was entertaining in her head.

She touched the wood with a strange, unfathomable delight.

_I have my own magic_, she thought once more with euphoria. _And I'm never going to give it up._

* * *

**A/N:**

** Hello! Thanks a lot to the many people who read and reviewed the last chapter, I was really pleasantly surprised! It's very encouraging to get feedback, so I'm quite grateful. Thanks to anon reviewers Guest1 (I think she showed a bit of that this chapter &amp; thanks!), Anon (very interesting points again, thank you :) yes, there is a Hogwarts in this story and they'll soon be going there. Tom will definitely have a certain effect on most of her friends/classmates/acquaintances, if this chapter is anything to go by, and he will choose the right time when to scare them), Guest2, Guest3 (yey for creepy), Guest4, real talk (great to hear the pacing isn't too slow! and yes, updated).**

**I hope you keep reading and sharing your opinions. Once again, the pacing is a bit slow for a reason, and I hope you don't mind. They are going to leave home soon, but until then :)**


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

For two blessed weeks, she was free. Tom barely spoke to her, if at all, and stayed in his room at all times. Hermione could not believe her luck. She exulted in this god-sent interlude. She could breathe again, could feel her stamina returning.

Tom, on the other hand, turned pale and sickly. He was sulky and unresponsive to his parents, so much so that the Grangers thought he had come down with some bug. They took him to see a physician. He recommended fresh air, exercise and above all, some company.

"The poor boy just needs more friends!" was the general consensus.

Hermione did not really see the point. Tom wouldn't _want_ friends. He was a self-sufficient oddity who did not seem to care about people, as a whole. No, he was upset because he wasn't so special anymore. He wanted magic to be his thing. And it _wasn't_. It wasn't hers, either. There must have been – she imagined with some trepidation and excitement – many others in the world like them, living in secret, perhaps. And she was sure Tom would resent every last one of them.

Much to her surprise, though, he appeared to have _some_ friends at school. She was made privy to that information when her mother burst into her room one evening to tell her she _had_ to accompany Tom and his friends to an outing in the park.

Hermione put down her book.

"Why do I have to go if his friends will be there?"

Cora shifted her eyes towards the window. She twisted her mouth awkwardly, the way adults do when they have to explain something complicated to a child.

"To tell the truth, Tom doesn't _want_ to go to the park with his friends. But I've spoken to the boys' mothers and everything is already settled. I think he might be less stubborn if his sister joined him. You might make him feel better."

"He said he doesn't want to go?" Hermione asked, slightly surprised that Tom would risk spoiling his "perfect little boy" image.

"Well…he was very shy about it, but I'm a mother. It's not hard to tell these things. I'm sure you would notice too, if you spent more time with him. Oh, I know you and he have had a rough time getting along, darling," her mother blurted out, eyes growing hard, almost as if she were afraid of revealing too much. She sat down next to her on the bed and tucked a stray lock from her forehead.

_You don't know the half of it_, Hermione thought, accepting her mother's caress notwithstanding.

"But you're a sensible girl and he's a good boy, if you only let him show you. He's had a bad start in life, but that doesn't mean he can't grow up to be a wonderful man. He's frighteningly clever and so sweet... I will admit there is something distant about him..." Cora trailed off with a glazed look.

Hermione's heart stirred. Might her mother feel, deep down, there was something wrong with him? Could she hope to have an ally, after all?

"Which is why we must get him out of this bad spell," Cora continued soberly, all thoughts of his strangeness pushed aside.

Hermione blinked. _Spell_. There was something cruelly ironic about the word.

Whatever else Cora said, she wasn't paying much attention. She nodded her head perfunctorily. She had to admit, she was a little bit curious about these supposed _friends_.

* * *

Her mother had put a ribbon in her hair. It was a dirty blue, gone faint from washing, but she liked it best. It was wrapped around her head, its bow resting on top of her hair like a diadem. Years ago – it seemed like centuries – she had pretended it was a real diadem and she was a very important duchess. Not because she cherished the idea of royalty. She was more interested in the duchess' pets. She had heard these great old ladies could keep several dogs at once. Her parents didn't allow such fanciful scenarios.

Happier days.

Now, she touched the tight knot in the middle of her bow and looked over the boys in front of her with a growing sense of unease. They were…not what she had expected. And yet maybe they were.

They made up a very eclectic, very _Tom_-group, if she could say so herself. Two of them were bespectacled and pimple-cheeked. They smiled nervously and played around with their caps. The other three were large and bulky, and they didn't smile; they only leered, their lips spreading upwards like dead fish. They made witless jokes about school and girls and the War. The ever-looming War they were sure was going to happen.

"They'll make little Jews fly up in the sky like on Guy Fawkes'."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. They would have been vulgar had they possessed even a drop of imagination. But she could tell right away, these were the innocents. The schoolboys with big fists usually were. They meant no ill, personally. But they _were_ used for ill by others. Girls like Elspeth liked to gather heavy-footed soldiers around them, in the eventuality of a threat. Riddle was following an age-old tradition.

But the shy, consumptive boys who could hold better conversation - what were they used for? Did Tom actually enjoy their company? Did he see something in them?

It was a small mystery. Did all these boys really _like_ Tom? A bigger mystery.

They spoke to him in a friendly, off-hand manner, and they even let him take the first dip in the delicious tomato sauce Cora had packed for them, but they kept their distance. It was like watching strangers meet for the first time. They were cheerful, but aloof, as if Tom was an acquaintance they weren't sure of, yet.

Did they suspect his true nature? It didn't look like it. And yet, they must have sensed _something_ if they were still holding back.

One of the more skittish boys – his name might've been Eddie –was saying something with mild enthusiasm. She decided to listen.

"…and I reckon my dad will take me to see Mr. Prescott's Lagonda. Yeah it's not brand new, but it's a 16/80 and four years is young for a car, especially for a 16/80. And anyway, who wouldn't want an original Lagonda?" The boys sitting next to him nodded their head in understanding, but upon seeing Tom frown and remove a piece of dust from his jacket, they looked away and scoffed. The poor Lagonda fan swallowed thickly and leaned forward to grab a piece of cold toast. He asked for the marmalade. She handed it to him out of pity.

Hermione had done all the work; she had set the blanket and the basket and the little saucers, but no one had thanked her for her trouble. One of the boys had given her his magazine, as a token of appreciation. But her place in the group was fraught with ambiguity. In their eyes, she was in cahoots with the "grown-ups" and was going to tell them everything the boys had said and done. Every girl invariably became the Mother, in such a group.

Tom was frosty towards her and barely addressed her a word, although sometimes, he had to acknowledge her presence.

"Pass the salt, will you?" he would say in a toneless voice.

"Of course, Tom," she would reply with a smile. She wanted to save face in front of strangers. But she also liked how Tom's lips twitched when she acted sweet.

He saw her like an inconvenience the Grangers had forced on him, which was not far from the truth, but Hermione would've liked to tell him she wanted to be here as much as he did.

"Well, this is rubbish," he concluded with authority after leafing through a film magazine which had landed on his lap. Hermione saw Greta Garbo's stern face on the cover. She noticed that the boy sitting next to her – Rob, was it? - was looking intently at the cover too. Tom had dumped it in the middle of the blanket, and Hermione bent to retrieve it. She wanted to give it to him, but the boy shook his head with alarm and pushed it aside.

Hermione was miffed. Elspeth was at least popular and so, it made sense that girls listened to her, but Tom did not appear to be "popular", not by any true sense of the word. Why would they care what he thought? Cleverness and charm were all well and good, but you needed something extra to get ahead, you needed -

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Had he _shown_ them he could do magic? Or…had he shown them he could make things happen? No, he wouldn't be that foolish. Yet he was very proud.

The conversation had changed from cars and films to the War again. The boys were talking about its imminent start with the certainty of adults. They seemed really eager, too, like they could hardly wait for it to begin. Even the smaller ones were confident about it. But what did they know? They had not even seen the first War.

"My dad says they're going to draft Kronenberg first. He's the factory owner. He acts all smart, even has his own driver, but he's so fat he can't see his legs. They'll send him off to fight in Germany and he'll lose that weight pretty quickly!" one of the boys – George, she thought – was saying with a laugh.

Hermione felt her cheeks grow red. She glanced at their chaperone's spot on the bench, above the lawn. Clara Stoltz had probably heard the boys' remarks. She must have heard all their comments about the Jews. She didn't look upset, but it made Hermione feel bad, either way. Clara was a nice twenty-year old girl who lived down the block in one of the shabbier-looking houses on the street. The Grangers never talked about that because it was very insensitive to discuss the lives of the less fortunate. Clara had agreed to look after them for a fee. But she was nothing like a fat factory owner. The Stoltzes were the owners of nothing, really.

She was pulled away from her thoughts, when George, who was now staring at Clara too, said in a low voice,

"She's a looker. I'll bet you no one here has the guns to go kiss her."

"On the cheek? Or on the…" Eddie asked, uncertain.

"On her foot, where do you think?!"

"You'll get the back of her hand, if you're lucky!"

Tom coughed once and set his sandwich down. "A kiss. That doesn't take that much effort, George. How about a slap?"

His audience went quiet. Hermione stared at him.

"I only mean, a kiss on the cheek… that's expected. A slap is a bit more daring. So, who's up for it?"

The heavy-set boys looked interested, but wary. The thin ones only smiled reluctantly. Hermione was about to open her mouth and say something, anything to break this awful silence, when Tom's lips suddenly contorted in amusement and he started laughing. Lightly.

"The looks on your faces. You're all milksops, the lot of you." He went on laughing. The others joined him awkwardly and tried their best to pretend they never, for once, _really_ thought about it.

"No, no. I'm teasing," Tom began again apologetically. "A kiss, a slap…child's play, really. I think what would really make her itch is calling her a dirty Jew. To her face."

The laughter resumed uneasily. The boys didn't know anymore; was he joking again, was he in earnest?

Tom shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "George. You started this whole thing. Go tell her she's a dirty Jew or you'll be called a coward for the rest of the day and you won't get any cake." He laughed again lightly, as if this was only jesting, but you couldn't be sure. You never could be sure.

"Tom," Hermione warned.

He looked at her blankly. "Yes, _Sis?"_

"That's not funny."

"_I_ find it funny. Just as funny as Archie's joke about flying Jews on Guy Fawkes. Right, Archie?"

The boy in question chuckled awkwardly. "That's right."

"Oh, come off it," she said, when she saw that George was actually getting up to speak to Clara. "This whole thing is pretend."

"The War isn't pretend, though. Is it?" Tom asked his mates.

The boys somberly shook their heads.

"Yes, it is," she insisted. "That's why children talk about it so much. Because it's like a story."

Tom's lips twitched. "My sister is saying we're children."

"That's not what I meant!"

Rob frowned at her. "Sorry, Hermione, but you're a girl. Of course you don't like wars."

"I don't like them because there's nothing good or interesting about them, just as there's nothing good or interesting about going up to Clara to tell her hurtful things."

It had been the wrong thing to say. If before it had been a hypothesis, now she certainly_ was_ the Mother of the group, the one who cohorts with grown-ups and uses words like "hurtful". She could see the boys shifting their eyes away in irritation.

"All right, then. Who here thinks George should man up and go to Clara?" Tom asked lightly. "Raise your hands."

One by one, some more hesitant than others, the five boys raised their hands.

"Who thinks we shouldn't?"

Hermione raised her hand.

"It's settled, then."

George got up and dusted his knees with great interest. Hermione swallowed thickly. Anyone could tell the boy wasn't looking forward to his task, but he had to prove Tom right and her wrong.

The other boys all got up with great interest. They wanted to watch the performance. Only Tom and Hermione remained sitting on the blanket.

"Clara will tell Mum and Dad what happened," she informed him coolly.

"Yes. She'll tell them Tom doesn't have very nice friends. And Cora will think twice of calling their mothers for an outing again," he replied evenly.

Hermione blinked. She had to admit she was impressed.

"That's…that's pretty brilliant, actually."

She had blurted out the words without thinking. She winced and chanced a glance at Tom. His mien had not changed, but something about his eyes bothered her. They seemed pleased. She bit her tongue angrily. She shouldn't have given him satisfaction.

Emboldened by her anger, she asked in a whisper,

"Did you – did you show them you could do things?"

Tom's countenance darkened by degrees, as if an afternoon shadow had flickered across its smooth surface.

"Is that why they listen to you?" she continued heatedly.

"You insult me. I don't need _that_ to convince them."

"But you did it anyway, didn't you? You scared them with some awful trick," she pressed on, glancing from time to time towards them.

He kept his face straight, but his mouth was cruel and ready to bite. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no.

"Are you jealous?" he asked at length.

"You're joking. As if I would ever want to manipulate people like that–"

"Nothing's stopping you," he shrugged with scorn.

"I'm not like you. I'm going to use my magic for good," she said in a low voice.

Tom was watching George attentively. Hermione turned to look. He had reached Clara's spot and was holding his hands knotted behind his back. Some moments passed in agony and uncertainty. The other boys were standing close-by, listening intently.

Then – Hermione saw it with a flinch – Clara's face went white. She put a hand to her cheek and turned her body away. She lifted her arm to shoo the boy, but she was obviously discomposed.

George stood still, amazed at the eerie effect of his own words.

His friends cheered mildly and he staggered back towards them, smiling a heroic smile. He had returned from war.

"No one's good, you see," Tom told her, watching the spectacle unfold.

Hermione shivered. His eyes were consumed by hunger and what he had seen had not sated him. Not yet.

When George and the boys returned to the blanket, Tom clapped his hands in congratulations. An empty sound.

"Well done, George. As reward for your bravery, Hermione will give you her ribbon."

She jumped, as if burnt.

"Come on, Sis. Be a dear," Tom beckoned with venomous fondness.

When Hermione didn't reply, he leaned forward gracefully. Before she could stop him, his hand was on her bow. He gently tugged the knot free. The ribbon caressed his fingers as he pulled her hair loose. She felt a frost in her bones.

"There," he said, standing back. The ribbon was dangling from his fingers. George received it with a blush.

"Now, shouldn't we have some cake?" he asked amiably.

Hermione got up and tossed the basket aside, spilling some of its contents on the blanket.

"Have at it," she replied with biting sarcasm.

The boys watched her walk away with shame and relief. Tom stared at the ribbon George was now holding weakly in his hand.

* * *

He leaned against the lamppost, leafing through a tattered edition of the _Hermetica_. He wasn't much interested in Hermes Trismegistus' wisdom, but he _was_ curious about his theories on alchemy. These were the portions he would read with a passion. He suspected there was a way for him to transform and alter substances using magic, the missing element the ancients had not possessed.

He checked his watch impatiently. She was late again. _Stupid girl._

He watched throngs of girls walk hand in hand down the school steps, but no Hermione to be seen.

At long length, her bushy head made an appearance. She was carrying her schoolbag at arm's length and she looked quite dishevelled. Tom closed his book with a thud.

She walked to him quickly.

At closer inspection, she had suffered an altercation. Her palms were red, her knees were scratched and her uniform was tousled.

Tom felt a stab of anger at the sight. If someone had already brutalized her, what was the point? He wanted her fresh and clean, untarnished by the common mob.

"You're late. What happened?" he asked resentfully.

"What happened is you upset Elspeth and turned her against me," she retorted, not even bothering to look at him. He could understand now why she held her bag away from her. It was soaked. And it smelled _vile_. Like something had died in it.

"What did she do?"

"Why do _you_ care to know, anyway?"

"Simple curiosity," he said, eyeing a cut on her knee.

"Her cronies dumped my bag in the toilet. I tried to fight them, and _voila_," she replied, glaring. "I was late because I had to stay and dry my books. Half of them are ruined anyway."

Tom licked his lips. He remembered Elspeth. Ugly cow. He pictured holding her head above the water closet. He pictured bunching her hair tight, pulling on it until she cried out. He would push her head in and watch her struggle desperately as her shouts gurgled to the surface in tiny, helpless bubbles. A Chinese form of torture, except not quite, since he wouldn't pull her head out. He'd hold her still, until she became still too.

"And it's your fault," Hermione continued angrily, walking two paces ahead of him.

"Why didn't you use magic?" he asked wanly, trying to appear disinterested.

Hermione shot him a look of surprise. She probably thought he still harboured some _childish_ grudge against her powers. How daft. He didn't care a jot. She would never harvest her powers, never know their reach and depth like he did. She would hesitate, because she was naive and tragically cowed by her sense of right and wrong. So what if she also happened to have magic? No doubt plenty of miserable fools did, and look how well they managed. He would surpass them all, he was more than sure.

And he certainly didn't need _her_ to reach greatness. _You were weaker before me_, she had said, but she had no idea how much more powerful he would be. He'd show her, then, who was truly the inferior. And she would sorely regret her words.

"I – I could have harmed them. I don't want to harm anyone," she replied, confirming his thoughts.

"You tried to harm my snake. And I bet you've had thoughts of harming me."

Hermione blushed a deep red. "That was – that's not true."

"Isn't it?"

She turned away, obviously disturbed. "Elspeth's girls didn't hurt me _on purpose_. They were just following orders."

"What if Elspeth had told her girls to kill you?"

Hermione gasped. "That's ridiculous! She's not stupid or insane."

Tom shrugged. "Doesn't have to be. She could've told them to put your head inside the toilet instead. Maybe one of the girls would've held your head in for too long and..." He saw Elspeth's gurgling shouts form tiny bubbles on the dirty surface and smiled to himself.

"Accidents happen," he finished. "What then?"

Hermione was visibly shaken.

"You'd die for their sake?" he goaded.

"No," she spat, looking him up and down as if he was diseased.

"So you _would_ harm them, after all."

"That doesn't make me a monster," she retorted. "Like you."

Tom smirked. "No. You'll never have it in you."

She hurried her step. She had taken out her handkerchief and was pressing it to her knee. A dry crust of blood adorned the white lace.

He scowled with disgust. He did not abide by outside intrusions. He was supposed to have her all for himself. That's what family was. That's why she was his sister.

"Tom."

He was absorbed by his thoughts and the sight of her blood and he did not hear her at first.

"Tom," she repeated.

They had turned into an empty alley. Except it wasn't empty. A gang of young men, a couple of years older than him, was walking towards them. They looked suspicious, to say the least. Dirty clothes, trousers too short for their ankles, black nails and hardened grins. They swore and laughed and slapped their backs. Their object of amusement was him and Hermione, since they kept looking their way.

"Should we turn around?" she asked warily.

"No. They can't harm us."

It was too late anyway. They were quickening their step. Soon, they were right in front of them. He was not afraid.

"Look what we'ave here, Steve. A regular Stanley and Cissy Baldwin! How are things in Parliament, Prime Minister?" one of them bellowed in his ear.

"Get lost," Tom muttered, swerving past him.

"Ohoho! Not so fast, champ! Where's the rush?"

The others laughed, but made sure to block their path, so that Hermione almost knocked against a sharp elbow.

"We don't have money or anything else you might want," he said flatly, hoping they'd take the hint.

"Hang on, hang on! Are you callin' us thieves? S'that what we look like to you, Minister?"

One of them made a kissing motion to Hermione, who turned her head away.

"We're honest blokes, we are. But if you badmouth us, weeell we're gonna have to defend our honour."

Tom didn't have time to register what happened next. There was an impact. Someone got hit. There was a creeping pain between his teeth, like too much air had escaped his lungs at once. He tasted blood. Not dry, on a handkerchief. But wet and alive on his tongue.

He wheezed and danced in a dizzy circle, his head pounding.

"Tom!" Hermione yelled through the fog in his brain.

He put his hand to his mouth. He saw her, getting shoved by two of them and then grabbed by the leader, the one who'd punched him. He felt the tangy, metal fluid slip down his throat.

"Get your hands off her," he rasped, wiping his lip.

The young men sniggered. Their leader pretended to let Hermione go.

"Oh, dear. Best we do what Gov'ner says."

He sniffed at Hermione and turned up his nose. "You stink, Cissie. How about a clean up?"

"Let me go!"

He ignored her and started going through her pockets, keeping a tight grip on her wrists. Hermione tried to hit him with her foot, but one of the other guys grabbed her from behind.

Tom felt his hands shake. He registered a blistering warmth at the tip of his fingers.

"I said get your hands off. Her."

His fury was something removed from him, an object he noticed from afar. It looked like a brilliant ball of light. It swarmed his sense and made it hard for him to control his movements. A wave of energy cut through the air like a blade. His head was ringing.

Hermione's attackers kept laughing, but the noise was strangled somehow, like they'd choked on their own tongues. And then, they really were choking. One of them started scratching at his throat. His eyes were bulged in terror, face blue with effort. The other clutched his mouth open, trying to get the air in. Both, in the grip of horror. Hermione was released from their grasp.

Tom held up his hand, feeling the energy float from him to them, like a powerful cord that connected his wrath to their withering bodies.

He felt exhausted, but sated, as if he'd scratched the growing itch inside of him.

Hermione was looking at him, bewildered but relieved. Her eyes roamed over his features like he was not all there. And then she looked past him and her mouth formed a perfect 'o'.

"Tom! Be careful! Behind you!"

He tried to turn, but fists and feet kicked him from behind. And he collapsed on his knees, spitting blood.

"Stay away from him!" Hermione hollered and she threw her bag at them. Except, the thing was on fire now. And the flames rose high towards them, like claws that were trying to catch them. Their screams would have woken up the dead. Tom saw them from the corner of his eye.

"Crazy cunt!" one of them expelled. They grabbed their mates who had stopped choking and were gulping for air like newborns, and ran down the alley, out of sight.

Their voices died down, at length.

The only sound remaining was the crackling flames, which had made a ring around the burning schoolbag.

Tom was still kneeling. Hermione knelt too, clutching at her chest. They were both panting. Hermione took out her handkerchief. The one with dry blood.

"Here."

He grabbed it and dabbed it faintly over his mouth and nose. It turned a deep crimson. His blood had swallowed hers quickly.

He felt a strange sense of pride. For once, he didn't protest at the thought of his sister having magic.

They looked into each other's eyes. The schoolbag was still burning.

"At least it doesn't smell anymore," she remarked dryly.

Tom pressed the soaked cloth to his mouth. He gasped, let out a short laugh. And suddenly, Hermione was laughing too.

It was short-lived. The smile quickly faded from her lips.

"Mum and Dad are going to kill us."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hi again! I'm really wowed by the number of people who reviewed the last chapter! Thanks so much to all of you, it's really great to read your feedback! Thanks to anon reviewers Guest1 (wow, I'm really flattered, thank you!), Jessica, Anon (I'm really glad you liked it and you're so right about Tom still being a child deep down), M.M (*blushing* thanks so much, you're really kind and I'm out of words, except to say I'm so glad everything is to your liking! and I'm a hopeless romantic too), Guest2 (Happy you like the pacing and yes, it will definitely make for some interesting school years once we get there!), real talk (aww, thank you, that's lovely to hear. I'm glad the characters aren't OOC and that my fleshing out gives you a better grasp on them. I love developing them.), Guest3, Guest4 (Very interesting point about Tom's muggle-hate and how living with the Grangers will affect him! I've given that some thought myself, and you'll see how it turns out. Also yeah, Hermione won't catch much of a "break" during school breaks, will she? Anyway, I'm glad it's compelling so far!), Guest5 (thank you &amp; you're in luck because there's some Tom POV this chapter wink wink), Red on the run (I'm assuming it's a good 'woah' haha).**

**We're still not at school yet, but we're getting very close to it :) *hopes no one is glaring at their screen right now***

**Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! I got a bit inspired while writing it, and because I listen to lots of music that reminds me of Tomione, I decided to make a playlist for the fic. If you're interested you can find the link on my profile! (the playlist is called "peccatophilia" on 8tracks and my username is cherry cup)**


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

The fire had died down. Her schoolbag was now a boneless carcass, charred and carbonized, like the corpse of a child.

Hermione didn't go near it. She looked at it as if it couldn't be salvaged anymore, and it _couldn't_, but she wasn't all too sad about it. Her disposition was naked to his eye. She was oddly content.

He felt a variety of feelings, himself, and some were pleasant, although they poked thorny holes in the cavity of his chest.

The penumbra of laughter still hung somewhere above their heads. Tom was beginning to feel a porous pain in his broken lip and blunt nose. The punch had been served with knuckles and angry finger ligaments. It was likely that the attacker also sported a broken hand, or at the very least, a sprained wrist.

He still pressed the soggy handkerchief to the space between lip and nose, but it didn't much help.

"We need to clean up," Hermione said after a while, eyeing the bloody medley on his face.

Tom raised a scathing eyebrow. "Think it will help?"

"No…but maybe if we didn't look completely mad we'd have a better chance with Mum and Dad."

He got up and began dusting his trousers with one hand, while the other still dabbed the foul cloth to his nostrils.

Hermione spat into her palms. She tried to clean her bloody knees.

"Come on," he urged, impatiently, turning abruptly away from her. "I know a place."

He had combed these parts of the neighbourhood with attention to detail. It had been an attempt at forethought, and sometimes, a measure against boredom. He remembered the water pump in the back of Seymour's meat den.

Hermione was about to walk into the open street, where passers-by would doubtless stop them to inquire on their frightful state.

He grabbed the elbow of her hand. "Not like this. Follow me."

He led them further down the alley which stopped short at a wall of bricks. Hermione groaned. But Tom dragged her forward. There were three garbage pails stashed neatly to the left side. Without letting go of her elbow, he pushed the middle one aside. There was a hole in the wall, just as he remembered. Not big enough for a grown man, but very suitable for them.

"Tom, do you know what you're –?"

"Yes, now stop asking me stupid questions."

He sensed her arm tensing against his fingers. He softened his grip only an inch. But it seemed to coax her. He went through first, and she lumbered after him, trying to stave her head from making contact with a brick.

On the other side, they found themselves in the back court of an apartment house. There were stacks of laundry spread everywhere across the short, stubby grass. Most of the linen was starched, but quince-yellow in the sunlight. Tom put a finger to his lips. Hermione frowned. She whispered, "If we get caught, it's your fault." He threw her a pernicious look. She was anxious, and he could see it in the watery charge at the corner of her eyes. Yet the earlier gratification brought on by their victory had not entirely vanished.

They tiptoed rather comically between musty sheets, as Tom guided them through the maze of bedding. Their fingers and foreheads were baptized infrequently with flecks of carbohydrate powder.

Finally, they stopped at a fence that reached higher than their heads. Tom nudged his head forward.

"We're going to jump over," he whispered.

Hermione's eyes widened with fear. "No. I can't. I can't do that."

Tom's mouth grew hard and the congealed blood on his lower lip trickled further down his chin.

"Don't be stupid. I'll hold you up. Come on."

"No!" she whispered a degree louder. He shushed her with a finger to her throat.

"D'you want to get caught? Is that it?"

"But I'm not good at –"

"I said I'll help. Isn't that enough?"

Hermione looked like she was about to throw up, but she put her hands on his shoulder. Tom was mildly surprised at her quick capitulation, but he put one hand around her waist and another around her legs. She was smaller than him, which made it easy to pick her up, but she wasn't very light. He struggled a bit, gripping her flesh so tight she yelped.

"Raise – your hands – towards – the fence," he panted.

She listened to him and seemed to make a genuine attempt to grip the posting, but in the process, her feet kicked and shot out like a young colt's and Tom received a fair number of blows to his ribs.

"Slowly!" he hissed, almost losing grip on her. His hands slipped and he latched onto the back of her thighs. He put one hand on the back of her skirt and pushed her over.

Hermione shrieked, but had the sense to bite down on her tongue. She got one leg over the fence, then the other. Tom saw the wound on her knee had split open again.

She lowered herself to the other side with a soft moan.

Tom heard the thump of her feet on the ground. He took some steps back. Then, with practiced heft, he ran and tossed his body upwards, drawing up his knees and clutching the edge of the fence as he jumped over.

He landed shakily on his feet, the air contracting in his lungs.

Hermione blinked, glancing at him with owl-like wonder. He might've thought she was impressed, but her eyes quickly flitted to their surroundings in concern.

They had alighted in another seedy alley, but this one didn't have a dead end. Tom grabbed her forearm. He didn't need to pull her away from the street, because she had already learned her lesson. But she darted in the opposite direction too quickly and his fingers slipped from her forearm, and fell against her palm. For a moment, her hand covered his. But he quickly regained dominance and captured her fingers in his fist.

"Ouch," she hissed.

He squeezed tighter. "Follow _my_ lead."

She grudgingly let him step forward.

Tom didn't release her hand when they turned the corner into a dark passageway.

"Through here," he beckoned.

They climbed up a short flight of stairs. The stark light of day hit their backs as they came out into a barrelled enclosure. There was a rundown barn to their right where a couple of chicks were clucking idly, huddled together like soldiers on a battlefield. No one seemed to be tending to them. And they didn't hold much meat on their bones.

To their left, someone had deposited a small mountain of wooden crates, which in turn attracted a great number of flies.

And in front of them were the washed-out hindquarters of a two-storeyed warehouse. They gave off a foul stench of meat and smoke.

"Seymour's," he explained.

The water pump was set against the wall next to a wooden door whose knob was missing.

"What if someone comes out?" she asked with trepidation.

"We run. Or we fight," he said matter-of-factly. He felt her shiver beside him.

"Don't think I can get up to any magic right now," she muttered wanly.

"Then you're not a very good witch, are you?" he drawled. He yanked her forward.

Hermione tugged free of his grasp and broke into an angry gallop towards the water pump.

She twisted the tap until a trickle of water spilled down the cobblestones. Tom saw her scoop water into her palms and drink with relish. She splashed it over her face and neck greedily. Then, she raised one bloody knee.

She looked at him through wet eyelashes.

Tom wrinkled his nose. "You look like a gutter rat."

Hermione pursed her lips and her hands shot to her hair, twisting the matted wet hair into place. But the locks defied her nimble fingers.

"You look worse," she retorted, splashing the grey slop at his feet.

Tom reached forward and put his lips to the stream. The water turned pink. Caked blood ran down his neck in hardened black grains. He crushed them open like insects between thumb and forefinger. His lip and nose were numb, but the cold made them ache. The blood gushed out more freely. He could feel the tangy fluid sloshing at his nostrils, like waves hitting against stubborn rocks.

His forehead pulsed and throbbed, as if it wanted nothing more than to break in half and pour this venom out. His head would be empty, but it wouldn't hurt anymore. He scratched at it angrily with bloodied nails. A smudge of moist red crowned his brows, but he paid it no mind. He continued his ablutions, until he saw Hermione absent-mindedly reach out to wipe the smear.

"Hang on, you got something."

She swept her thumb over his forehead and, instead of washing off the blood, she put it in her mouth and sucked it clean.

Water and blood. That is what the Romans saw trickle out of Christ's ribs when they pierced him with a spear. A clean sign of death, they said.

His blood was now in her esophagus and soon it would be wading in her stomach. His own stomach churned.

But she did not seem to notice what she'd done. She cupped her hands once more and drank from the pump.

* * *

"We still look lousy," she realized, after they had washed off the muck and the grime.

"More acceptable than before, anyway. We just need to dry out," he replied without much concern.

They were walking down the dark passageway where the cool breeze made her damp skin tingle. She wished they could go somewhere warm and sit down and have a cup of tea, perhaps something to eat, but Tom had other plans.

"Why can't we go home? I don't think they're back yet."

"Do you want to take that chance?" he asked without reprieve.

"They'd punish us more if we stayed out too late."

"You can't seriously be afraid of their punishment," he scoffed.

"If there's nothing to fear, why can't we return?" she insisted, glaring.

Tom gave her a searing look.

"They'll ask questions. Many stupid questions. And we'll have to come up with lies and excuses. I'm _quite_ good at that. You, on the other hand…"

"I've lied to them plenty of times thanks to _you_," she retorted.

"You can't lie about this without some practice."

"Fine! Let's practice, then."

But he ignored her. Hermione groaned in frustration. This was all his fault, in a way. If he hadn't been so distracting with his awful remarks, they might have avoided those boys. They walked aimlessly along a dank thoroughfare, fenced in by walls of brick on each side. It was a real feat to avoid stepping into rotten remains and sewage discharge. Hermione wondered how clean they could keep while they wandered around these parts. They'd just have to go back to the pump and have another wash, at this rate.

She was obscurely drawn to this fetid world, although her mind was too preoccupied to register it. At school and at home, dirt had a steep price. You touched the greasy underside of the sofa by accident, you went and washed your hands until they were red and raw. You got pushed on the sooty playground, you cleaned and scrubbed your skirt until it broke at the seams.

Here, it didn't seem to matter at all. Here, she was part of it, somehow. It wasn't comforting, but it diminished her fear of the unknown and made it palpable. After all, she could _touch_ this rotting cabbage head and nothing bad would happen. There was no mystery to it. No real death. Just life, life swarming and teeming with ugliness.

Tom was both at odds and in harmony with this back-alley universe. His cold elegance rose out of this rank inferno like the stem of a dark flower. But the roots were planted here. And here is where it thrived.

She wondered if he could live like this forever, scavenging across the underside of London, wading through the grub. Perhaps he _should_. Why didn't he? Why didn't he just leave the Grangers? He'd be fine on his own. Not that it mattered.

But she was curious. Did he know other places? Did they all smell this bad? Were they exciting? Were they his secrets?

She was pulled out of her thoughts when she saw him climb up a fire escape. It wound up towards a wrought iron balcony, the windows of which stood slightly ajar. She espied a foam of grey curtains, billowing against the railing. Several such iron mouths jutted out of the wall, so close that they were kissing.

"Tom!"

She was afraid he'd jump through the window. But he simply slipped through the iron bars and sat down on the balcony's edge.

Hermione looked up at him for a good minute or two. He swung his feet into the empty air below, ignoring her. His eyes were trained on an unreachable horizon somewhere high in the sky.

She started climbing up the ladder. She didn't look down. She didn't look up. She only focused on the rungs and her hands and her breath.

By the time she reached his spot up above, her calves were burning.

He gripped the collar of her uniform to pull her up, but he yanked some locks of hair too. She bit down on her tongue when her scalp roared in pain. She remembered old train-sets and soft carpets strewn with auburn curls.

Hermione slipped through the bars and sat down next to him with a sigh.

Her body protested against the dizzying height, the cold of the cement under her skirt, the icy draft on her back, the dull weight of her bones inside her legs as they dangled helplessly into nothing.

But her eyes and her heart were bathed in a golden light.

The sun was setting, but not quite. It lingered stubbornly above the horizon, unwilling to go down and too tired to rise again. Its blaze was a fading memory, already cornered and ambushed by inchoate shadows, but still it glimmered with the stubbornness of the perished.

A late April dusk. Half a dusty city spread unevenly before her. She could see water towers and slated roofs and pointed spires. Molten metal, bronze electric wires, blue wisps of smoky streets. She breathed in the gold and breathe out the night. The pleasure was so keen, it was oppressive. Her senses were overwhelmed.

Tom filched through his pockets. She realized, for the first time, that he didn't have his schoolbag on him. She could not remember when he'd left it behind. It would have been stolen by now. But it had his name stitched on the inside in white thread. The thief would come across _Tom Riddle Granger_ and wonder what kind of name that was anyway.

He had removed a half-eaten apple from his pocket, the skin shrivelled and brown. He started nibbling on it. Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"How can you eat that?"

Tom shrugged. "Tastes sweet. Sweeter than most."

She doubted it tasted of anything, much less sweet.

"You'll make yourself sick."

"You're just saying that because you want to have a bite," he teased, bringing the musty fruit to her nostrils. She grimaced and pushed his hand away. She was about to reply, when she suddenly remembered a story she had read once in a funny book. It had been another curious exchange with the girl in year 8.

"Did you ever hear of a place called Winesburg, Ohio? I don't know if it's real _real_. I mean I know Ohio is real. But Winesburg? Anyway, that's the title on the book spine. And in one of the stories, there's a doctor who lives in Winesburg and he's very odd and really smart, but he's kind of lonely. And he writes stuff he knows to be true on slips of paper. So, he gives patients paper pills, instead of real pills. I think – I think that's the trick. Or the name of the story. Anyway, he meets this young girl who is very tall and dark, and he gives her paper pills too. And they fall in love. But there's a funny passage about gnarled apples."

She stopped to catch her breath. Tom was not looking at her, but it was clear he was paying attention.

"How they taste sweeter than those big, round apples we buy at the grocers'. Something about how the sweetness is gathered in one place. And the girl chooses to marry the doctor because he's like that, all gnarly and weird and small, but really sweet. Meanwhile, the young men who want to marry her are – you know – strong and healthy like the round apples, but they bite her and they bore her. They don't know her, I think. Anyway, I don't know why I remembered that."

She looked at the rapturous horizon and the urban dream that was softly coming apart with the falling dark.

"Winesburg," he repeated and she could feel his eyes on her cheek. "That can't be a real place." A beat. "Did she really marry the doctor?"

"Yes, but she died shortly after. It was really sad. The doctor was pretty inconsolable."

"Why did he write truths on pieces of paper?"

"I guess - I guess when you say something out loud, it stops being true."

"Does a name stop being true?" he wondered. "If you say it out loud?"

Hermione shrugged.

"You want to be Tom Riddle, don't you? _Just_ Tom Riddle."

He peered at her with slant eyes, as if she was a far-off object in a whirl of fog.

"No," he said, at length. "I didn't come up with it. I'll write my real name someday, on a piece of paper."

Hermione wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to that. She stammered a bit as she went on with her story.

"Anyway, I think the doctor hated the paper pills after her death. He never left his room or opened the window again…"

Her eyes darted to the windows above Tom's shoulder.

She heard the tinny of a radio inside, but beyond that, silence. All the balconies were empty.

"_Where_ is everyone?"

"Out there," he said, nudging his chin towards the vast city, the horizon.

"And where are we?" she asked in an incredulous voice.

"We're here."

He threw the apple core into the darkness below.

"We're here."

* * *

The sky was a nasty shade of violet when they wound their way back to the house. They were walking stonily, not speaking, not even breathing out loud. Both seemed to know these were the last moments of peace. Each had a fistful of lies ready to empty out on the living room carpet.

As the boy and the brother, Tom would be charged first for not taking proper care of his sister. He hated the injustice of it, but he looked forward to it too, like a burden you want to carry because it elevates you and lessens your peers. In their parents' eyes, Hermione was weak and he was strong and he exulted in this depreciation. The most powerful titans carried the skies on their shoulders, after all.

They were some feet away from the gate, when they saw the front door burst open. Their parents walked out in the evening chill, accompanied by a tall man in flowing robes. He looked like a judge, or someone of great importance who settled matters of life and death. He wore a funny-looking striped suit underneath the robes and he carried a bulging briefcase that threatened to spill open at the slightest pinch. He sported a top hat too, but it looked old and worn-out and hardly matched his laborious garments. He nodded his head decisively once or twice, shook Henry's hand, tipped his hat and walked out through the small gate.

Hermione and Tom stopped dead. They sensed it. They sensed something strange about the man and his appearance in their parents' house. He carried a fragrance of the unknown which smelled familiar, all the same. And he terrified them beyond reason.

It was too late to turn away, because Cora Granger had spotted them. She elicited a small shriek.

"The children!"

Henry brought them inside, holding their arms in an iron-grip.

* * *

_They know._

Hermione couldn't say why she was so certain, but there could be no denying.

_They know. _

The first clue was that, upon seeing their bedraggled state, their mother didn't immediately march them into the bathroom for a scalding bath. She was particular about these things. But no. She just sat them down on the sofa.

The second clue was that there was no real punishment to be had, and no proper scolding. Henry and Cora only listened to their farfetched story with half-lidded eyes turned explicitly towards the carpet They nodded their heads. They spoke normally, gravely, like parents who had been disappointed, but not altogether angered. Their expressions were kind, even pitying. It was all right, but it was very wrong.

The third clue was they were sent to bed without dinner and told they'd have to wake up early the next day, which was a Saturday. Her parents let them sleep in on a Saturday.

Perhaps this was punishment.

No.

Cora would have made them take a bath before bed. She would. She didn't.

Alone in her room, Hermione had to dump her spoiled clothes in a corner and towel herself with her bed quilt. She slipped a clean nightdress over her sticky skin and felt queer, like it wasn't enough to cover her. Like it wouldn't hide her at all. Something was going to happen the morrow, something bad. No punishment. Maybe something worse. Maybe they'd be taken to a doctor to have the magic taken out. He wouldn't be a funny little doctor, like the one in Winesburg, Ohio…

She sat on her bed and tried to make herself cry. But her tear ducts were dried up and she couldn't feel any regret. She would only cry if they took out the magic.

Years seemed to pass in this cruel state of waiting, until she saw the knob twist slowly to the left. The door was locked. The knob turned again, right. A soft click.

Were they going to take her to the doctor now?

But it was Tom.

"Go back to your room. You'll make it worse," she called out in the dark.

He pushed her aside without force and closed the door behind him.

"What are you doing? Why aren't you packed yet?" he demanded.

"What?"

She noticed he was wearing a thick sweater and his best trousers. And that he carried a small bag.

"We don't have much time, you dolt. Just grab something to wear and anything else that could come in handy."

Hermione gave a short, gasping laugh.

"You're not – you're not seriously running away!"

"No. _We_ are running away. Now, do I have to do everything by myself?"

He was already walking to her one of her closets.

"Tom, we're _ten_. We can't run away. We're _children._ We'll starve and get sick and they'll catch us before we've had time to blink."

"No, they won't. But if you keep standing there like a silly goose, they might."

He was throwing clothes and shoes in a heap on the floor.

"Please, Tom, we can't do this -!"

"We _have_ to. There's no other way. Don't even try to argue with me."

"Just listen -!"

"No. You know what they'll do? They'll do exactly what Mrs. Cole did at Wool's."

_Wool's_. She knew that name. She'd heard it spoken once or twice in a hushed whisper. Tom's orphanage.

"Wait – what did she do?"

Tom rummaged through the next closet. He talked, but he didn't seem to be paying attention to what he was saying.

"When that old bint realized I'm better than her and _everyone_ there, she – she – well, it doesn't matter. But you wouldn't like to sleep in a cold cellar and get whipped by a bloody beast of a man while she stands and watches with her beady little eyes. I tried to tell her I didn't kill the rabbit on purpose, but she _hated_ me and – well, I don't care a living sod for her. I hope she chokes on her own bile. Until then – we have to go."

Hermione's head was throbbing. She imagined a beak-nosed lady with beady little eyes staring down at her from a great height, and she grew afraid.

"They won't do that to us."

Tom laughed a cold laugh. "They'll send us to someone who will."

_The doctor_, she thought bleakly.

Hermione breathed hard. Her palms were burning and her eyes were still dry, even though she desperately wanted to cry.

"Just – just go without me. I can't do this. I can't run away."

Tom stopped his forage.

"You'll do fine on your own. I've seen it," she said, thinking of today and the horizon and the gnarly apples.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could see the blue shadows under his eyes.

"I can't leave you here. They'll make you talk. They'll find ways. You're a liability to me."

Hermione shook her head. "I won't know anything to talk about."

"Don't play dumb. You've got magic. That's enough. Either I shut you up forever, or you come with me. Which one do you prefer?"

Hermione turned away. "Your threats don't scare me."

"Perhaps they should, Sister."

_I'm not your sister!_ she wanted to scream, but lost her will at the last moment. She was tired. All she wanted was a hot bath and a chance to reason with her parents.

"Mum and Dad will protect me. They're sensible people. I'll just talk to them, explain everything and they'll understand–"

"_Really_?" he scoffed_._ "Don't fool yourself. You could've told them everything tonight, but you didn't. You know can't trust them. And you know they won't understand."

Hermione looked at him. _Do __**you**__ understand? Can I trust __**you**__? No. Not now, not ever._

"I won't go," she insisted, but she could feel her resolve fading.

"And I won't let you stay. You are an extension of me. I either destroy you, or take you with me. But I can't leave you behind. Do you understand?"

He shook her shoulders gently.

"So choose."

He must have known from the start that children always choose life.

* * *

It was a cool night. An unpleasant chill drove up his trousers as he swung his bag against his leg. But it was freeing to be out at this hour, with the world behind him. Hermione trudged along miserably, but steadily. She was not going to turn back. They had strayed too far from home for her to return, anyway.

There were no tramcars running this late, but he would find them safe shelter until morning, and then they'd start off to King's Cross. He had enough pocket money for a trip to Nottingham. He kept remembering the story Hermione had told him, the one with the paper pills and the doctor. Winesburg, Ohio sounded far enough. It sounded like a good place to be. No one there would dare bother them about magic, because there, they were all queer and alone. So maybe they wouldn't stay long in Nottingham; maybe they'd take a ship to America. Anything was possible. He felt a dizzy spell in his stomach. _Anything_.

"Where are we going?" she asked quietly, shouldering her bag.

"A couple of streets further. There's a pub with an underground floor. The window's got a broken latch. It's warm down there."

Her face was very white against the night sky. She looked sick.

"We'll die."

"Shut up. We won't. We'll never die, all right?"

"Everyone dies."

"Yeah, well…I bet wizards and witches found a way around it," he replied.

The pub had a yellow mast over its front door. _Sailor's Crew_, it said in loopy letters across the scratched paint. The front steps smelled like piss and ale. He swerved round to the back and crouched down at ground level to find the window.

Hermione waited on the kerb. She dumped her bag at her feet and stretched out her hands. Then she put them over her face and remained still.

Tom found the latch. He tried to turn it up, but it was locked. He twisted and pulled it this way and that, but the window was fastened tight. He couldn't understand. He'd come here many times with his books. There was an old lumpy mattress inside with a red coverlet, perfect for solitary study. He'd loved lying down on it, whispering incantations from old Latin books. They had never come true. Just words in the wind, he knew. That was not real magic. Those people had died a long time ago and had only written nonsense to amuse the readers. And yet sometimes he felt the room shift, as if it sensed his powers. Sometimes, a rat or two fell dead at his feet in promise of greatness. And the very air told him to wait and bide his time, that soon the knowledge would be his.

He knocked his elbow against the pane. He had to get in. He had to make sure the mattress was still there. But instead of a glass echo, he heard a dull thud. He cupped his hands to look inside. Someone had hammered two wooden blocks over the window. Tom shivered uncontrollably. Whoever had done this would suffer an untimely death.

His teeth started clattering. He could hear the gnashing sound in his ears. He kicked the window with his feet. His toes throbbed, but he kept on kicking. They wouldn't catch him. They wouldn't put him in a cellar again. Because _that_ cellar had no lumpy mattress and he was never truly alone there. _She_ was always watching with her beady little eyes. And her loyal brute was always pummeling, always hammering.

He felt a sheen of sweat on his forehead, hot and burning like a poker against skin. He shivered again. And closed his eyes. If he pressed his palms against the pane, and if he wished it hard enough… if he channeled his desire in the very cartilage of his fingers, magic would answer back. He had to be precise and careful and confident.

He tensed and writhed and beckoned it come to him.

A noise. The thrumming of an engine. Like wheels screeching on pavement and glass shards breaking. A swift and terrifying current of electricity.

He opened his eyes. The window and the wooden blocks were intact.

But behind him, Hermione was gawking at a monstrous apparition.

It looked like a tower on wheels.

An enormous dark blue bus had stopped in front of _Sailor's Crew_. Its size dwarfed all buildings around them. Even the tallest houses were scant competition.

"Tom, come quick!" Hermione cried out, but her voice was drowned by a heavy, rusty groan. A pair of doors clanged open with a sigh and a gangly young man emerged from within. He sported a crooked conductor's cap and a pair of slouching corduroys. A number of belts were secured fast around his chest. And a chain with the letter 'K' dangled from his neck. He looked no different from an eccentric vagrant.

"Hallo! Happen to call for the Knight Bus, did you? Well, here I am."

Hermione gaped. "How – how – did you –"

She couldn't find her words.

"All right, Missus?" he asked, eyeing her curiously. "Best tell me where you wish to go."

Tom sprinted out of the dark.

"You there! What do you want with us? Explain yourself!" His throat was dry. His voice came out hoarse, which made the young man laugh.

"Eh, another one? I don't want much with you. I'm just here cos you called. I come where I'm called. Would be somewhere else if I could. Now, what's you lot doing outside at this hour?"

"We _didn't_ call you," Tom replied icily.

"Sure, and my Nan is an opera singer. How about you hop in? Can't dawdle all night. Got other stops to get to. You ain't the only magic folk around here, ya know."

Tom and Hermione shared a stricken look. _Magic folk._

"Who are you?" Hermione asked warily.

"Reginald Shunpike, conductor of the Knight Bus, at your service. You can call me Reggie. Course, you two don't look very bright, so maybe I should talk slower. Muggle parents, is it? Some education they gave you. Just come along now before you catch your deaths."

"Where are you taking us?" Tom asked, taking hold of Hermione's wrist. He was ready to flee if this alarming man got a step closer.

Reggie pulled on one of his belts and looked sideways. "For Merlin's sake, how should I know? _You've_ got to tell me."

Hermione gulped. "Wait. You'll take us wherever we want to go?"

The conductor groaned and turned his head inside the bus. "Ernie, I need a raise."

Tom looked beyond Shunpike. He could see a long line of twin-size beds in the corridor, and now that there was no more noise, he could even hear snoring.

"You can do magic, then?" Tom asked swiftly. Hermione shot him a startled look.

Reggie made a face. "Listen, I ain't about to break some Ministry rules and do a spell on your behalf. Don't want to lose my wand, thank you very much."

Tom didn't understand half the words he was saying, but a surge of boldness egged him on.

"Prove it. Prove that you can do magic."

"Calling me a Squib, then, are you?" the young man tittered. And suddenly, he removed a small stick at his side and waved it into the air.

"_Lumos_," he mumbled.

The tip of the stick grew bright like a torch, shining mercilessly into their faces.

"Convinced now?" he inquired snidely.

Tom opened his mouth in shock. He wanted to absorb the light and the magic that came with it. He stared at the wand like it was a slab of meat and he was a ravished dog. The yearning made his mouth water.

Hermione covered her face. "Yes! Just don't hurt us."

"Hurt you?" he laughed groggily. "I'd lose my licence! And what'd I do then? Come on now, enough games. We've got to get moving."

"Can you take us to –" Tom was about to say King's Cross. But that was a fool's errand. If this man was a wizard and if this bus was magic, it was worth a better try. "– to Nottingham?"

Reggie scratched his head. "Queer location, but have it your way! Hop in!"

Hermione wavered a moment. She looked back whence they'd come. There was nothing there, though.

Tom gripped her wrist. He bent his head and whispered in her ear.

"I don't trust him either, but his wand could prove useful. Should we take it."

The girl threw him a peculiar look.

"I don't think we'll manage that far," she whispered back.

Tom pursed his lips. _You leave that to me_, he seemed to say.

He pulled his sister forward and they both stepped inside the Knight Bus.

* * *

They said the fastest racing aircraft in the world was the Hughes H-1 Racer. But it was nothing compared to the Knight Bus. Tom felt his insides split and come together as the behemoth twisted and turned like a trapezist performing a dangerous circus stunt. He could hear the wheels screeching and skidding, almost as if at any moment the bus would be thrown off its course and headlong into the passing buildings. But it never happened. There was a bizarre elegance in its meanderings, a kind of control that must have been mastered by a genius lunatic. Reggie had confirmed as much. Ernie Prang, the driver, was apparently as mad as a March hare.

Tom had to look away from the window. The scenery moved so fast it made his head hurt. Hermione was equally befuddled. She kept rubbing her eyes in disbelief.

"And the people can't see us?" she kept asking Reggie.

"Why, that would be a funny idea! No, Muggles see nothing, as usual."

Tom wondered what that word meant. _Muggle_. It didn't sound like anything good. Muggles didn't see magic. They didn't know about this bus or about Reggie and Ernie. They were simpletons of the worst kind. He hoped Reggie didn't think _they_ were simpletons. Then he felt stupid for caring what he thought.

"How can the passengers sleep with all this commotion?" Hermione asked next, looking over the various occupied beds. The snores were as loud as ever.

"Oh, you get used to it quickly and it's best to get a drop of sleep while you can," Reggie said, winking. "Now, I'll have to be off, Missus. Got other customers to entertain."

Hermione wanted to ask him more, but he nearly vanished before their eyes. Tom noticed he slipped through a trap in the door to the level below.

"I wish we could go downstairs too," she intimated. He couldn't say he disagreed. They were on the top level of the bus where you felt as if the roof might come off at any moment and you might be catapulted into the night sky. Not a very pleasant sensation.

His stomach was queasy. He sat down on their bed.

"Do you realize what this means?" he asked in a tremulous voice.

Hermione gripped a pole to steady herself against a sharp turn.

"There's a whole _world_. A whole world of magic out there, hidden from common sight. But _we_ can see it. We can enter it. We're not," he tried out the word on his tongue, "_Muggles_."

"So, you're saying we called the bus because we've got magic? How does it work, then? Because I certainly don't remember asking for a magical conveyance."

"It doesn't matter how we did it. It matters we _did._ And what's more, Cora and Henry will never be able to get on it with us," he replied, eyes gleaming with delight.

"I suppose that's a good thing right now," she said with half his conviction.

Hermione wobbled to the bed and almost fell in when the bus took another sharp turn. He caught her waist in time, but the floor shook hard and they both rolled over on their backs.

Hermione looked up at the ceiling and yawned. "Maybe we should lie down. Maybe that's why these people sleep. It's a headache to sit up."

Tom rose on his elbow and looked down at his sister. She was sprawled next to him like a felled tree. He could see she was thoroughly exhausted. But there was also relief in her features. She had wanted to escape too, he could tell. She was just too damn attached to those people she called parents.

"They won't be able to find us now," he said with certainty. "Just in case, I'll try to snatch Reggie's wand. He doesn't look like much of a challenge."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered faintly. "What about the passengers? Maybe _they've_ got wands. And they're asleep...so we can simply take them."

Tom opened his mouth in surprise.

"We'll have a wand each, and seven more to spare. And we'll find Mrs. Cole and curse her blind for what she did," she murmured with a sleepy, cat-like smile. Tom blinked. He felt his flesh rise in goosebumps. She was already half-dreaming.

"What about Henry and Cora…?"

"We won't hurt them," she muttered quickly, eyes closed. "We'll just – we'll just erase their memories. There must be a spell like that. You should ask Reggie about it…"

The rest of her words were lost. She soon fell asleep.

Tom stood still for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall.

_Erase their memories_. He had never thought of that. But it was rather ingenious. He looked over her peaceful, sleeping face. Her countenance was as smooth and innocent as a babe's. And underneath that porcelain skin was an insidious little mind.

_We'll find Mrs. Cole and curse her blind for what she did._

He smirked to himself. He'd keep her to that promise.

She shifted in her sleep and turned on her side, bringing her knees to her chest.

Tom saw the dried up wound on her shin. The day's events spun before him like a film reel. It had been one long odyssey. He could not remember the beginning. But he remembered the blood.

He reached into his bag and removed a small penknife.

He plopped one hand on her thighs to keep her still and then, ever so gently, he opened up the wound with the blade. The bus careened on its wheels and pushed her limbs apart, but he kept a steady hand. The flesh broke and unfolded like petals at dawn. The red line deepened and droplets of blood started gathering at the edge.

She had wiped his brow and she had put the thumb in her mouth. She had drunk his blood. She had him in her stomach, flowing through her veins. A Christ long dead on the cross.

He bent his head and opened his mouth. His tongue tasted the salty skin and the tangy fluid. He drank the blood and licked it clean. All the while, his eyes were watching her face. She was fast asleep.

Now he had her in him too.

* * *

**A/N:**

**The story Hermione tells Tom about the doctor and the gnarled apples is actually the short story _Paper Pills_, written by the American writer, Sherwood Anderson. It's part of his _Winesburg, Ohio_ collection, published in 1919, which is the volume Hermione read from. I'd definitely recommend it since it's a fascinating, heartfelt little story and the whole collection is great.**

**And yes, Reggie Shunpike is Stan Shunpike's grandfather. The business runs in the family (hah). Ernie Prang is the same driver from the_ Prisoner of Azkaban_, except he's quite young here since, you know, this is 1936.**

**That being said, thanks for having the patience to read this ginormous chapter :) And thank you ever so much for your wonderful feedback! Thanks to anon reviewers Guest1 (thanks &amp; we're getting there!), Guest2 (oh yes, there will be hell to pay when Hermione starts having beaus. As for his name, there's going to be an interesting little conflict there later), Anon (thanks, I'm so glad nothing seems superfluous! Yes, these two are both siblings and enemies at heart and the bond they develop is veeery twisted, but genuine, if that makes sense), Guest3 (Glad you liked the team up! Now I can't say how much longer this will last, so enjoy it for now haha), real talk (well, they're both ten at the moment, but going on eleven, which I think this chapter sort of clarifies. also, the Grangers will definitely have an impact on Tom, whether he likes it or not. He enjoys the way they see him and he likes to have people like that around him, even though Hermione is his true obsession), nyctophilia (thanks and updated!), Guest4 (thanks a lot! and I secretly love possessive Tom too but shhh), Guest5 (well then, this chapter must have pleased you since we get more Tom pov :) And yeah, I prefer British for HP), pastrieslover (this chapter definitely provides more Tom pov to feast on, if that's your thing ;) and thanks!), Guest6 (thanks!), Amazing (wow, thanks, I'm very flattered!), Jenny (aww, you're too kind, thank you).**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did or didn't, hit me up with your impressions!**


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

Hermione remembered when it had been just the three of them. Mum, Dad, and Mione.

In the dream, it was her sixth birthday, the middle of a comfortably cold September. Henry had chosen a late holiday for the family that year.

He had told they were travelling to Penzance, and if she could find the place on the map, she would get all the ice-cream she wanted once they got there. Hermione punctually set to work on her father's old travelling map. Her little finger followed the crenellations of the island with intense concentration. When she found the destination at last, she gave a victorious shriek and announced from the top of the stairs:

"Cornwall! We're going to Cornwall!"

They stayed inside the hotel for most of their sojourn and had salt and mud baths, which Hermione did not like very much. They walked into town too, invariably, but Cora got terrible headaches from all the sea-fare and the shouting on the docks. They went on the beach twice, just to visit it, because the sand was icy and the aerosols smelled like rotten eggs. But on Hermione's birthday, her father told her to unlace her boots.

Cora watched from the shore. Henry carried Hermione on his hip into the water. When the sea reached his knees, he grabbed her and dipped her down into the frozen waves, holding her up by her elbows.

Hermione shrieked with delight. He pulled her up and dipped her down again. The water reached the starched linen of her little frock. Her stubby feet were numb with cold, but she moved them in the water, valiantly.

"That's enough now! Come out!" her mother called from the shore.

But Henry dipped her in one more time. Hermione had never loved her father more. She chanced to look up at his bushy-browed face, but she didn't recognize his features. Sea spray clung to her eyelashes. She blinked once, twice. His countenance was altered. He was much younger. A boy, really. Every line on his face had been drawn with a Chinese brush. Exacting and harsh.

His eyes were cool and icy, much colder than the waves under her feet.

He dipped her down.

And dropped her.

* * *

Hermione woke with a start. At first, the movement frightened her. Was she still in the dream? But she was not wet. Quite the contrary. She was sticky and dirty all over. She badly needed a bath.

The windows were bathed in blue light. It was early morning. She couldn't tell if it was going to be warm and lovely or chilly and dull. The sky was undecided.

She slipped down from the bed.

"Finally. You mumble like a baby in your sleep, did you know?"

Tom was standing across the corridor, leaning negligently against a steel bar which looked quite unstable. He seemed to keep his balance well enough against the graceless turns in the road.

She wondered if last night had been another dream. She remembered sitting in bed together. She felt a blunt pain in her knee. Dried-up flecks of blood lay flat against her pink mottled skin. She brushed them aside, not minding them much. Every bit of dirt now had to be tolerated. Perhaps, if the bus had a bathing room... Doubtful.

"Are we there?" she asked groggily.

"Not yet, but we're bound to arrive in minutes."

Hermione frowned. "Why didn't you wake me sooner? Were you going to get off the bus without me?"

"Don't be silly."

Tom detached himself from the steel bar and approached the bed. Hermione drew back her knees, waiting to see what he would do.

He stood in front of her and pried his jacket open an inch. His eyes roamed the corridor, wary of any possible spies.

At first she was not sure what she was looking at. A drumstick? The last winks of sleep evaporated quickly when she realized what it was.

"You got one!" she whispered with unrestrained joy.

Tom put his finger to his lips, but smirked all the same.

"Of course. I told you I would. It was fairly easy. The old man was snoring like a hog. Didn't even hear me go through his things."

Hermione didn't like Tom's smug tone.

"Don't forget it was my idea," she said, feeling guilty all the same that she had come up with it. But it made a lot of sense to take a spare wand from a sleeping passenger. She was sure these witches and wizards had _more_ than one wand.

"You just sat here and slept. I did all the work," he argued.

"Well, I did the thinking, which counts a deal more," she replied, with a bit of bite to her voice.

Tom scoffed and shook his head. "You'd be eaten by rats if it weren't for me."

"I set a schoolbag on fire, I think I'd be _fine,"_ she replied with an arch of her brow.

"You'd burn the rats, too?" he taunted, eyes gleaming.

"If - If I'd have to," she lied, putting on a brave face. The truth is, she could hardly bring herself to picture it. Much less do it.

Tom was silent for a moment, but he must have caught a flicker of guilt on her face, because he chuckled nastily. "You haven't got the stomach. Besides, you're not very imaginative. There are _better_ ways to dispose of the unwanted." He pointed at the wand.

"Let me hold it. It's not _yours_. It's mine too," she protested.

Tom shushed her. "You'll wake them up. We'll try it out when we get off. This is no plaything, mind you."

"I _know_ it's not a plaything." She looked at the smooth dark wood jutting out of his inside pocket. She would never use it to harm others, would she? Maybe only very, very bad people, like the woman from the orphanage. Justice was important too.

"It's sturdy enough. I don't think it will break," he said, as if he was an authority on the matter.

"Not unless you snap it in half," Hermione replied. She could tell, deep down, Tom was tempted to do it. Just to see if he _could._ Such instincts always scared her. She had never met anyone so infatuated with ruin.

Still, the desire for power seemed to outrun the desire for destruction.

"We're going to take good care of it," he said, patting his chest.

Their chatter was cut short when they heard the clatter of uneven boots on the corridor. Tom buttoned up his jacket.

Reggie's conductor cap sat jauntily on his head as he offered them good morning.

"Now, then. Next top, Nottingham. Sherwood Alley. You two should look sharp."

_Sherwood Alley?_ Hermione wondered.

"Like Sherwood Forest?" she asked out loud. "Where Robin Hood and the Merry Men used to live in the legends?"

Reggie took his cap off and polished it with his elbow.

"Muggle education. Pah! Ain't no legend, Missie. Robin Hood was a respectable wizard. His Merry Men's the fable. He worked alone."

Tom and Hermione exchanged a look.

Tom tilted his head to the side. "How could an outlaw be a respectable wizard?"

"Got no time to tell you, but I'm sure you'll find some answers in Sherwood Alley. Off you go then."

Hermione was about to say the bus had not yet stopped, when she fell over, mouth filling with the musty bed sheets, as the vehicle pulled itself to an abrupt halt. Tom had had the foresight to hang onto the bedpost but he looked rather dizzy too. Only Reggie seemed perfectly unperturbed.

"That'll be four galleons for both of you," Reggie said, before letting them pass.

Tom stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a couple of pounds.

"Muggle money! What am I to do with that?"

Hermione balked. "We don't have anything else!"

Tom shot her a withering glare. "What my sister actually means is, we don't have any on us at this moment, but we will acquire some…galleons quite soon. And if you give us your address we will send you the money via post."

Reggie made a nasty grimace. "I ain't giving you my address. Well, you're in the Knight Bus' debt, then. Next time we come for you, you're paying double. If you don't pay then either, we'll never pick you up again."

The two siblings were quite relieved to hear that, although Tom kept muttering to her as they went down the stairs that she should not blurt out what they have and don't have to strangers. "He would've found us out anyway! It's best to be honest!" she hissed at his head. He ignored her.

Neither of them, however, was prepared for what awaited them outside. They made a few stumbling steps and stopped dead at the same time.

Someone – probably a wizard or a witch, for who else? – had laid out an impossible dream in front of them.

The alley was more like a proper street, but not one of the boring ones at home, where the best you could see was some flowers and flags during a Jubilee.

No, this one was bright with colours, packed with the most queer-looking shops and houses they had ever seen. They could hardly imagine their neighbours living in the spiral towers that rose up around them to such dizzying heights that one had to stretch one's head to see to the top.

They were knocked aside quickly by a man and his moving cart. He was shouting about chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties. Hermione and Tom stepped away, but ogled after him in shock. For he wasn't carrying the cart. The thing was moving quite voluntarily on its own legs.

Hermione wanted to ask Reggie what this place was, but when she turned her head, the Bus had vanished, the same way it had appeared. Fumes hung over a cosy little shop, on whose gleaming windows someone had painted the words "Divination and the Sciences of the Future". She blinked. The letters suddenly moved. They danced around each other until a new phrase appeared. "_I need not a vain sect. I find, I curseth." _The remaining "u" was stretched thin until it turned into a cat-like grin which tottered at the edge of the window.

"Samuel! If I see you charm those letters again I'll have your head, I will! Bad enough that blasted bus spoiled the air!" a woman screeched from inside. No sooner were the words uttered than the sign was back to its original form. Divination and the Sciences of the Future.

Hermione shuddered, but she felt a thrill of excitement either way. Tom had moved further along and was looking over the windows of each shop.

Hermione studied the people, which there were plenty of, running about on an errand, or simply ambling leisurely. If her mother had been walking with her, she would have made some choice comments about their attire. Flowing robes, dabs of strident colour and hats in the most bizarre and impractical fashion.

She ran to catch up with Tom, but it was hard not to linger and stare. And some people stared back. Presumably her normal, dirty garments looked out of place too.

"Don't saunter. We'll look out of place," he told her when she ran up to him, out of breath.

"We already _do_. Haven't you noticed?"

But Tom hadn't noticed. Not only that, he wasn't even paying attention to her anymore. He turned back to the shops. He wasn't ignoring her; he simply was too happy to care about it for long.

_Happy_.

Hermione was stunned. His face positively beamed with a kind of light that she had never seen before. Or if she had, it had been corrupted by his usual smirk.

"Can you believe it?" he asked. "Can you believe the world they hid from us?"

"I can't," she confessed. Left and right, new and impossible things were being performed and they all defied the laws of logic she had grown up with.

She touched her forehead. The pulse throbbed, as if someone had knocked it with a hammer. She realized she was happy too. This was all real. They were really here.

She giggled in disbelief and scampered after Tom, feeling more like a child than she had in months.

He had stopped near a small podium which had been set up in front of the newsagent's. A small crowd had gathered around it and a speaker was already climbing up the stairs.

"He might perform wand magic," she said excitedly.

"Maybe we'll learn a thing or two," he agreed.

The man was dressed in what might've looked like a tailored suit, but Hermione didn't know of any suits that also sported a cape. He did look like someone important, however. His grim, hard-lined face played a big part in that image.

He placed the tip of his wand to his throat and suddenly, the words boomed out of his mouth as if amplified by a thousand times.

Tom's fingers trembled to reach for the wand in his pocket and try the same thing. Hermione, however, looked carefully at the wand movement.

The speaker adjusted the "volume" of his voice quite easily with a flick of his wrist.

"Fellow citizens of the wizarding world! It is perhaps no surprise to you that once again, against our reason and function, we are on the bring of War. Not _our_ War, mind you. _Their_ War. For it is always their War, if we are to speak plainly, which I intend to do. Barely two decades have passed and the Muggles are teaming for blood once more. And mark my words, this one will be brutal. If you thought the First War was a travesty of all that is decent, you have no idea what the Muggles have come up with now! Their barbaric machinery, I hear, is more finely attuned to killing than ever before. Our Ministry has promised protection, my fellow citizens. The same kind of protection they offered us twenty years ago. The Great Miss Vablatsky, Seer of Seers, has divined it all to the last letter. If you don't believe me, I invite you to read it all in my new book -"

Hermione was fairly disappointed to see the man intended to perform no other spell. He went on talking about his book and the War. Her mood was spoiled. She had thought the stupid War wouldn't follow them here. Surely, wizards and witches had better things to do. And yet they were all listening. How could they pay attention to this when all the wonders of the world were on display for their enjoyment?

She leaned towards Tom.

"This is not exactly magical."

"No," he agreed. "He's just a twat. Let's move on."

He was more bored than vexed with the whole thing. His eyes searched tensely for the next marvel to explore. He couldn't care less if the speaker decided to talk about geese.

"Your language is so bad, Tom," she remarked as they walked away from the podium. She couldn't bring herself to say the word. _Twat._ She felt naughty just thinking it.

"What does it mean, by the way?" she asked, pretending to sound nonchalant. The truth is, her parents would never tell her. They would punish her on the spot. Her parents, who were far away now.

Tom threw her a look. The smile that flourished on his lips was both perverse and boyish. She was reminded of the afternoon picnic in the park and those awful, sad boys.

"Do you really want to know?"

She nodded her head. "Is it bad?"

"Very, very bad."

Hermione scoffed. "You're mocking me."

Tom turned away. "Of course. But later, I might just show you."

_It's probably something disgusting, like horse dung_, she thought to herself, annoyed.

The speaker's roaring voice still lingered in their wake, but after a while, they could discern it no more. _The War, fellow citizens of the wizarding world! The War!_

Hermione looked over her shoulder and saw that the crowd had doubled. Maybe witches and wizards weren't different from Muggles, in some ways.

"Come on. In here," Tom urged, and before she knew what was happening, he had pulled her through a tinkling door.

Hermione had to bite her tongue to suppress a laughter and a shriek. She was staring at owls. _Dozens_ of owls. She had never seen so many of them in her life. Come to think of it, had she even seen _one_? In pictures, certainly, and they had looked fairly menacing.

These creatures, however, looked deceivingly tame. They screeched and hooted in a polite enough manner, as if they were in the middle of intelligent conversation. Some were snow-white, others speckled with brown and gold. On the lower shelves, Hermione could see other smaller cages.

She drew nearer. _Squeak_.

"Rats?" She remembered what Tom had said. _Eaten by rats._ "Won't the owls eat them?"

"Why, yes, Miss. But my owls are well-behaved. They only eat when fed."

She turned around in a fright. An elderly-looking man with a pointed chin and a cropped beard stared down at her, not unkindly. He was wearing a tattered apron the colour of mustard and a pair of rubber gloves.

"Would you like to try one?" he asked, pulling out another pair of gloves from the apron's pocket.

"Try one?"

"Put these on. And tell me which owl you'd like to pet."

Hermione did not really want to pet _any_ of them, but she thought it would be rude to refuse the offer now. She chose a plain, brown one. It looked sleepy and docile enough.

The old man slipped the giant gloves on her tiny hands.

"I don't think these will fit –"

Instantly, however, the gloves stretched and shrank to her size, until she could move her fingers quite deftly inside them.

Hermione let out an indecorous gasp.

"Is there something magic _can't_ do?"

The shopkeeper scratched his pointed chin. "Well now, that's a rather philosophical question. I suppose it can't bring people back from the dead. Anything else goes."

Hermione watched him open one of the cages. The brown owl blinked twice and then, at the cooing and coaxing of the man, it craned its neck out of the cage and stepped onto the man's glove, its sharp talons sinking into the rubber.

Hermione gulped. Was this really smart? Her hand shook. She inhaled and tried her best to stand still.

The shopkeeper trotted slowly to her side and gently, almost unseemly, lowered the owl on her glove.

Hermione felt the talons almost graze her skin. She raised her hand. The bird swiveled its head and looked at her with wide, yellow eyes.

"Hello," she said stupidly.

The owl lowered its beak and tapped it against the glove.

"Go on. Pet it," the old man encouraged.

Her trembling hand hovered over the owl's feathers. Any moment now, the creature would shriek and bite her.

Eyes closed, she caressed her feathery back. It felt soft and oily, like touching one of her mother's furs. She opened her eyes and smiled. The bird was standing still, receiving the ministrations without complaint.

"That's a nice owl, yes you are, quite a lovely little owl –"

"Oh, dear," the old man had time to say. Hermione ducked by instinct. The bird hooted angrily and swooped down on her, wings flapping like thunder.

The shopkeeper quickly grabbed hold of it before it snapped at Hermione.

"They don't like to be talked to as if they were _babes._ They can sense the condescension in your tone and they feel slighted," the old man explained, putting the owl back in its cage.

"Birds can tell _how_ you talk to them?"

"Oh, why certainly. Any animal does. They're very sensitive creatures."

"Tom, did you see?" she asked, turning around for her brother.

But there was no one in the shop except her and the old man.

_No. _

"Now, perhaps owls don't suit you. I sense you might be a feline sort of girl. How about a kitten?"

Hermione's throat was dry.

"Have you seen my brother? He was here a moment ago…"

The shop keeper frowned. "Ah, I think I saw a young man walking out just a while ago."

"Where did he go?"

"Perhaps he went to find your parents? I'm sure they'd like to see the kitten I'll fetch for you."

Hermione coughed nervously. "'Oh, no, no, don't bother on my account. We're not buying anything now. Just looking."

"Ah, right. Hogwarts is still some good months away, eh?"

Hermione had no idea what '_Hogwarts'_ was. It sounded rather nasty, like a cruel festivity where someone threw hog manure at you. She slowly made her way towards the door, hoping the shopkeeper would let her leave.

"I should go find my brother. Goodbye!"

She pulled the knob and dashed out, the screech of birds following her into the street.

She ran into the crowd and looked around her for a boy who was not dressed like everyone else. A boy who looked like her.

She vaguely thought she heard someone shout behind her.

"Miss! Little Miss, wait!"

Terrified it might be the owl-man coming after her, she started running towards a small opening to her left.

She barely had time to read the sign above her head.

_Knox Alley. _

That didn't sound very nice. But it was dark and crowded and hidden from view.

She descended down the cobbled path, two steps at a time, looking behind her to check if she was being followed. Her face was awash in a spectral light. Red and green lanterns swung from every awning.

_Strange, it's still daylight._

But perhaps it wasn't so strange, since there seemed to be much less sunlight here. Hermione glanced up at the sky. It was still bright and blue, but it looked so very far away, as if it belonged to another earth.

When she lowered her eyes, she realized she was being stared at. Two women, heavily rouged and tightly corseted, stood together in front of a shop whose signpost was that of a rooster with its head cut off.

"Come in, love," one of them beckoned in a honeyed voice. "Try something for your dainty white skin. Give it a bit of colour. We have the best produce in town."

She looked up at the bleeding rooster. And their crimson cheeks.

"No, thank you."

She walked away from them, pulling her bushy hair in front of her face, to shield her from their prying stares.

The air here was chillier. It made her skin prickle. She bent down, meaning to take out a shawl from her little luggage, when –

"Oh, no!"

How had she left it behind? She was always so careful! Nothing like this would have happened at home!

Now she realized why the shopkeeper had hollered after her. She must have left her possessions at the owl shop.

Hermione turned back, but she couldn't see the exit anymore. In fact, it was blocked by a giant trolley. Several bubbling cauldrons were put on display. Two men were ladling out the content which looked muddy and vile, and poured it into tiny jars, handing them out to their customers.

One of the men slipped what looked like bat wings into one of the cauldrons and started stirring.

Hermione felt sick to her stomach.

She was lost in some godforsaken alley, and there were all these strange people around her. And these shops – they weren't as pleasant as the ones on the main street.

And yet, she was not dispirited. The situation might've seemed dire, but she felt that this world of magic and wonder couldn't possibly lead her astray. And anyway, where else was she supposed to go?

She started walking further into Knox Alley.

She made sure not to bump into any of the vagrant carts or trolleys. She didn't want to get any of that yucky-looking stuff on her. On one street corner, she saw a man conjure flames from his wand to roast what appeared to be a tiny lizard.

_How does the wand not burn if it's made of wood_? she wondered as she saw the man point the fiery tip directly under the shrieking lizard.

She covered her hands to muffle the sound. Wizards were quite _strange_. Witches, too. They didn't seem much friendly. So far, no one had aimed a wand at her. She wondered with dread whether someone could roast her like the man had roasted the lizard.

But such dark thoughts were dispelled when she finally saw something she liked.

"A bookshop!"

There were so many books inside that even the windows were crammed to the slates with volumes upon thick volumes.

Hermione's heart leapt up in her chest. A bookshop in the normal world was wonderful. But a bookshop in the magical world? There must have been so many books about magic that she had never even dreamed of! To think of the secrets and wonders that lay ahead of her. And all she had to do was go inside.

She climbed up the steps and put her hand on the knob. An ink-stained roll of paper was slapped on the front door.

_No owls, cats, toads, rats or other vermin allowed. No children allowed. No giants allowed. No werewolves allowed. No vampires allowed. The rest – tread with care. _

Hermione swallowed thickly. That was a rather strange list. If magic was real, did giants and werewolves and vampires exist?

But children – how bad could children be? After all, she wasn't going to break anything. And she was _very_ mature for her age. All the teachers said so.

_Just a peek, at least_, she thought to herself, pushing the door open.

Her nose wrinkled in protestation. She had to cover her mouth with her hand. There was so much dust in the air and the mould smelled so pungent that her eyes watered.

Hermione's mouth fell open. The ceiling was – not there! Instead, she saw a mass of dark, billowy clouds. She was certain she had seen a roof when she'd come in. But perhaps the ceiling was the smallest surprise.

There were books – many books, more than she had ever seen at the London Library. The difference was, these were _flying._ They hung suspended in the air like the Christmas globes on the Christmas tree. The stacks went up into the dark clouds and vanished from sight. You could only reach them if you were tall or dexterous enough.

Hermione eased herself gently between two large tomes which were open wide like beast mouths, and saw that they were scribbled with all sorts of signs and squiggles. It looked like some nonsense language.

The only thing written in English was the small title on the bottom of the page: _Ancient Runes._

She flipped a couple of pages, but only more squiggles and strange marks followed, some bigger than her palm, others so small that she had to squint.

_Is this the language of the wizards? _

She made a mental note to search for it when she went back home.

Only, of course, she couldn't. She had almost forgotten that she was in a strange town, far away from her family.

Hermione pushed such thoughts away for, if she dwelled on them too much, she would start to cry and then she would ruin the marvellous pages full of queer signs.

She moved on to a new volume, determined to ignore her worries.

_The Magic of Salamanders and Manticores_, it said on the front.

She tried to fetch it from the air, but the blasted thing kept jerking away from her fingers. She jumped to reach it, but it only floated higher. She didn't fare much better with the volume on _Goblin Rituals: Immolation and Bone Breaking_, although she wasn't sure she wanted to read that one. Anything else was just as hard to pull down.

Hermione groaned in frustration.

This was the problem with a bookshop full of flying books. It was very impractical.

"You!"

Hermione shrieked. She turned around.

The boy was grey with dust and covered in spider webs to boot. But she would have recognized him anywhere.

"Tom!"

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, pushing away the webs from his hair.

"What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_? I've been looking for you everywhere! You just took off without me!" Hermione retorted.

"What an idea! I didn't take off. You were supposed to wait for me at the owl emporium."

"When did we establish that convention?"

Tom folded his arms. "I distinctly recall telling you, but you were obviously too distracted to listen."

"I was paying attention, thank you very much!"

"Really? Then where is your luggage?"

Hermione went red. "I – I left it at the emporium. It's probably still there, if we go look for it. The old man there seemed too nice to be a thief."

Tom scoffed. "You're _so_ naïve. You shouldn't be wandering around these parts. These shops are not for little girls."

"They're not for little boys either!"

They both stared daggers at each other for several breaths. But Hermione did not care to fight with him at the moment.

"Did you manage to catch one of the books?"

Tom's expression softened. "One or two. They're quite –"

"Slippery, I know."

"You still shouldn't be here."

"I happen to like books more than you, so I don't see why I shouldn't –"

Tom scowled. "You only like silly books. These are dangerous books. Dark and powerful."

"Oh, bother! I don't suppose those squiggly signs are going to kill anyone very soon."

"What?"

"I found these big books on something called _Ancient Runes_ –"

Suddenly, there was noise. They both turned their heads towards the front door, but there was no one there.

No. The noise was coming from _within_.

"Let's see who's in my shop now!" a grouchy, snappy voice called from somewhere above.

"Tom, we're not supposed to be here – the sign said no children allowed –" Hermione began in a panic.

Tom seized her hand. "Come on."

They ran to the front door, but a shadow blocked their path. A winding staircase was materializing right before their eyes. Tom, for once, looked scared.

They turned in the opposite direction, breathing in the dust and mould as they probed further into the bowels of the bookshop. They bumped into various tomes and leather-bound volumes which jerked, offended, from their path, scattering more dust on their heads.

"Here!" Tom urged quickly.

Hermione saw it too.

A large, mirror-panelled cabinet which reflected the black clouds above her and their frightened, ashen faces.

_How does it do that?_ she wondered for a second before Tom pulled it open with some effort and pushed her inside.

The door went shut with a soft thud. She could hear his elaborate breathing beside her.

Inside there was enough space for two people to walk about. But there was nothing in it, no books or clothes or other items that you normally find in a cabinet.

"Tom?" she whispered. "Do you still have the wand?"

"Of course I do!" he whispered back. "But we only know one damn spell, don't we?"

_Lumos_. She had almost forgotten. She still remember Reggie's wand tip going bright as moonlight.

They hadn't even tried it out. What a shame. They were about to get caught and punished, and the wand would be taken away. And she hadn't even held it.

"It could still be useful. If we move it a certain way, maybe –"

"Think I haven't thought about that? I tried it. Could not even manage _Lumos_, except a faint flicker."

Hermione felt a stab of unexpected betrayal.

"You tried the wand without me?"

"Shh!" He pressed his palm to her lips, pushing her to the back of the cabinet, until her head hit the wall.

He was breathing hard against her cheek, and his lips touched the lobe of her ear. They were strangely cold.

She could hear them now – the shuffling steps of a heavy stature.

"I know you was here! Where are you now? Come out, come out!" the same grouchy voice bellowed across the room.

"If you be an honest customer, we may do good business yet! If not…" he trailed off with a menacing growl.

Hermione licked her lips against Tom's warm palm. She squeezed his arm, eyes pleading with him to do something. But he was frozen in place next to her.

She tried to wrestle the wand out of his jacket, but it was too late. The cabinet door was creaking. It was going to open. They had been found.

Hermione screwed her eyes shut.

* * *

Tom had his hand around her wrist. He was ready to burst out of there once the cabinet door opened. Two against one – even if that one might be a lot stronger – was still something, especially since they had the element of surprise. They could jump on him, knock him down and flee. He had done it plenty of times at the orphanage. Hermione wasn't used to this sort of thing, but she had done tolerably well so far, for a girl.

There was also the knife he'd left in his bag. The knife he'd used on her. If he could only reach it before whoever was outside could hurt them...

He heard the door creaking.

He felt Hermione's tongue against his palm.

He was ready.

Let him try and take them down. Let him try.

And then –

Nothing.

He waited and waited for the door to open, but it remained firmly shut. It was as if the man had suddenly changed his mind and gone from the room.

He couldn't hear anything anymore. Except – were those birds chirping? That was highly unlikely. No such place would admit birdsong.

Hermione pushed down his hand.

"Is he gone?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Should we –"

"Let's wait."

As the minutes passed, the birdsong only became louder. He also heard crickets. And the rustling of leaves. Unnerved by such anomalies, he finally did take out the wand.

Hermione pushed past him. "What are those sounds?"

Tom clenched his teeth. "I suppose we should find out."

They both pushed the cabinet door open at the same time.

Their eyes went from complete dark to – blinding sunlight.

The sudden gust of warm wind made them shiver. The air smelled of grass and hay.

As they blinked the light out of their eyes, they became aware of a couple of things.

One. They were no longer in the bookshop.

Two. They had no idea how they had got here.

A country road curled up in front of them and faded away into green hills, which stretched as far as the eye could see.

Tom jumped out of the cabinet. Hermione leaned against his shoulders and clambered down.

They were surrounded by all kinds of furniture, ranging from one-legged writing desks to heavy ottomans whose plush had been torn, to disassembled drawers and chipped rocking chairs. All these broken things were spread out in a clutter on a giant coverlet. An old collection which, no doubt, had been left here to rot.

"Tom, where are we?" Hermione asked in a deceptively calm voice.

For the second time that day, Tom had to own up to the truth.

"I don't know."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Diagon Alley isn't the only shopping district in all of England, is it? Of course not! So here is another example of one such place :) Also, Cassandra Vablatsky is a famous Seer from the books.**

**I hope you enjoyed this installment and thank you for reading another one of my long chapters :) I have to say I'm still wowed by the number of reviews; I absolutely did not expect it, but I want to thank you all for being so kind and supportive and for taking time to write a comment. It means a lot to me. I am posting this chapter on the run because I am in the middle of some heavy schoolwork, so I won't be able to answer all of your reviews (I have answered some), but know that I treasure all of them, and I promise to do better next time! Thanks a lot to all anonymous reviewers as well, especially Anon, Jenny, Maheera Raaz, TheMargo and all the wonderful Guests!**

**See you next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

The heat pooled underneath her collar, in the dark void of her skin. Yet she shivered, as if she were cold.

There was a vein, somewhere at the base of her nape, that was throbbing painfully. The sun's rays were like small stones which an evil hand kept throwing at her with absolute glee. If she stayed perfectly still, she could hear it laughing. She dragged her shoes through the red dust and let her arms dangle wearily. Her heart beat lackadaisically, as if the heat had got there too. It seemed to her that all her fears were a separate entity which stood outside her body, and if she stopped moving for too long, that entity would jump out and choke her.

Tom was walking up-hill, neglectful of the torching heat. He was trying to see as much of the countryside as possible. He was not in a despairing mood. He had resolved he would not remain in the dark for too long. In fact, he had good faith in a positive outcome for the both of them. This blind optimism, she suspected, was a brave front. His nerves must be strained, but he would be the last person to show it.

They had tried to go back through the cabinet several times, without avail. Tom had gone alone, then Hermione had given it a go. They had gone together after that, making sure to match their movements in perfect symmetry. It hadn't worked on any occasion. They had tried objects next. A leaf from the ground. A broken musical box they had found in the surrounding junk. But whenever they opened the cabinet door, whatever they had placed inside was still there.

At length, they had given up and simply walked away; Hermione down the country road, Tom up towards the hill summit. She was too wretched to speak to him and he, for once, had sensed that she wanted to be left alone.

When she turned her head to look at him, she saw a small insect-like creature in the middle of brilliant verdure. He was no bigger than the flies and gnats swarming around her hair. She lost her footing as she waved them away. Her sock was suddenly soggy and wet.

_Aargh!_

Hermione had accidentally stepped into a small ditch by the side of the road. The water was murky brown and smelled of something rotten. She sighed and bent down to remove her wet shoe. She sank one finger inside the water. It was warm, but not as warm as her face, or her throat. She clenched her teeth, feeling bile rise up her oesophagus. Her thirst, however, proved stronger than her nausea. She cupped some dirty water in her tiny fists. She took a hesitant sip. It wasn't quite so bad. She spat the dregs on the ground.

Maybe if she cried, she would feel better. But she wasn't sure if she was angry or sad, or a combination of both. Her emotions were overwhelming for someone her age and she was just about fed up with _feeling_ for one day. So she decided to take it one step at a time and remove the wet sock, first.

It took a while to take off the boot. There were so many laces and ribbons to undo. But finally, she kicked it off her foot and rolled down the sock with relief. She wriggled her toes contentedly in the sun. This was better. She rubbed her ankle, which was red and swollen from walking. She'd give anything right now for a bath and a warm bed, _but if I stop, the fear will choke me. _

Hermione looked over her shoulder. Had Tom seen her drink water from a ditch? That would be mortifying. But something was blocking her view; a white light. It hid his small frame from view.

The shock that rippled through her turned to anger. And then rage.

_He's playing with the wand! __**Our**__ wand!_

Strangled with a deep sense of injustice that he was occupying his time with magic while she suffered the indignities of an orphan, she half-ambled half-jumped across the country-road, her boot and sock forgotten behind.

Once she reached the safety of the stubby soft grass, she broke into a run.

Tom was engrossed in his task. The light which burst forth from the tip of his wand looked weak and not very attractive, but it was a better effort than all his previous attempts. He basked in his own mild success and did not appear to hear the fast charge of his sibling.

"You're horrid!" she yelled, crashing into him with surprising vigour. The air went out of his chest as she pummelled him to the ground.

"How dare you? How dare you! It's all your fault we're here! It's all your fault we got into trouble! Everything is _your_ fault! You're not allowed to use magic without me! I hate you!"

Tom was, in the first moments, alarmed by her violent temper. Her red face swam into his vision like a great angry bird. Her hair was electric. It stood up on its ends by sheer force of will. She looked frightful.

"Give me that! It's my wand too!" she cried with a passion, and before he knew it, she had grabbed the stick from his hand.

She held the wand with both hands over her knee, ready to snap it in half.

Tom's eyes widened when he realized what she was about to do.

"No –"

"You wanted to see if it could bend all the way, didn't you?" she taunted spitefully. "Well, either both of us use it, or _no one_ does!"

"You wouldn't –"

"Try me!"

He could see that she was at the end of her rope. Her chest rose precipitously and her cheeks were flushed with a sick sort of fire. Her body had been pulled taut, like a string that was ready to unfurl.

He approached her warily, one hand outstretched in front of him.

"All right. So, let's both use it."

"Don't come near me!" she warned.

"Let's do the spell together, Hermione," he said, urgently, like his life depended on it.

"I don't want to!"

"Yes, you do," he beckoned.

"No!"

"Yes!"

He gripped her wrist and placed his fingers quickly over her left hand. He didn't expect her to say it, but somehow, when he shouted _Lumos!,_ she did too.

They waved the wand into the air together; a violent, but restrained arc that seemed to touch the sky.

They were both blinded by the impending light. A thick jet of rays shot out with a quiver from of the tip of the wand and turned their faces alabaster white. He couldn't hear her breathing. And he had forgotten his too. There was no room for gasps. Not even a blink.

They stared in awe at the burning white light. And then, they stared at each other. They looked otherworldly.

Tom did not know if the feeling at the pit of his stomach was excitement or dread. They had done this together. What _else_ could they do? If only Reggie had shown them another spell. If only they could learn some more.

Couldn't they?

The moment was short-lived. His eyes moved past her shoulder and landed on a dark figure, riding down the country road on the back of a donkey. He pulled Hermione down on the grass.

"What –"

"People!" he warned in a whisper as they both crouched down next to a bush of thistles.

They were still holding the wand together, but the tip was no longer luminous.

Hermione's face was contorted in sudden horror.

"Oh, no! My boot!"

Tom threw her an askance glance. "What boot?"

He happened to look down and saw that one of her feet was bare.

"I left it in the middle of the road with my sock!"

"Why would you do something so _stupid_?" he demanded, any good feeling towards her evaporating into thin air.

"Well, it's not like they're going to start searching for the other boot!"

"They might!"

Hermione huffed, wiping the sweat off her brow. "_Or_ they might help us. After all, we're lost and alone."

Tom's eyebrows furrowed in stark disbelief. "Are you saying we should show ourselves to whoever's out there?"

Hermione chewed on her lip in doubt. "I'm not sure, but we can't just stay here. We've got no food and no place to sleep. And we only know one spell."

"And you think they'll just welcome us with open arms? I don't trust _anyone_ to help us now that we've got this," he disputed, pointing at the wand.

"You think they'll be able to tell we're magical?" Her tone was skeptical, but Tom did not share her doubts. He didn't think it was a preposterous idea. After all, a whole world had been hidden from them for so long.

"Unless we perform any magic, they can't tell," she insisted, peering at the figure on the donkey. It looked like a woman, but she couldn't tell from that distance.

"Have you not noticed how…uncontrollable our magic is? _Yours_, especially. You could set something on fire by mistake. You can't manage your instincts." He sounded angry, envious and proud all at once, but it was hard to distinguish between the three.

"So we should just sit here until she leaves?" she wondered annoyed, for now she could clearly see it was a woman. She was holding a bundle to her chest. The donkey was also pulling a small wheelbarrow behind it. Hermione suspected the woman was there to retrieve something from the pile of furniture.

"We could get closer to her and observe her," Tom conceded, moving on his hands and knees through the grass. Hermione followed him silently, although the friction of the earth against her shins was torture. Her skin throbbed angrily and begged her to stop, but she pressed on with a sense of purpose. These physical pains were worth the trouble if she could rest on that donkey's soft back and be carried away to a warm home. She could hope the stranger would be kind.

As they crawled down towards the coverlet, they noticed the woman had already started rummaging through the furniture, bending over rocking chairs and chests of drawers, picking up a broken mirror or a washing stand and throwing them back in the junk. They also realized that the bundle tied across her waist and shoulders was, in fact, a baby. It was wailing softly against its mother's breast.

"Hush, now, Johnnie, we'll be home soon. Let's see if we can find you some plywood for a new crib. Daddy'll build you a new crib if you behave, yes he will. What a bunch of rubbish, though. Hardly what Maura said was worth."

_She's not the owner, then. She's just here to filch_, Hermione concluded with a sense of shame. Her parents had always told her there was nothing worse than taking what wasn't yours. Of course, she and Tom had stolen a wand. But that was different. Wizards had plenty of wands to spare. Whereas household goods were a different matter.

And yet, the real owners of this pile probably wouldn't mind, seeing as they had left the furniture there, for anyone to grab. Still, how could the proprietors have abandoned the cabinet? Surely, you didn't just throw out magical items.

"Oooh, Johnnie, look at this cabinet! What a beauty! It's so big and sturdy, but the working is so elegant! Fancy having this around the house! I'd have room for all your little clothes! Maura'll eat her tail when she sees!"

Hermione and Tom exchanged a look. They both seemed to be thinking the same thing. _She must be a Muggle._

"I'll tell Daddy to borrow Mr. Lawsgrove's car so we can pick it up tomorrow. Hmm, you're right, what if someone else comes and takes it? We should tell Daddy today, shouldn't we? How's that Johnnie?" the woman cooed, kissing her baby's cheeks.

Hermione felt the back of her neck prickle with fear. _Oh, no. That's an awful idea. We should tell her it's magical._ But when she looked at Tom for confirmation that he was thinking the same, she realized he had crawled a bit further down than her and was watching the woman intently.

"Tom," she whispered, scrambling towards him.

"Shhh," he hissed with a distracted frown.

"What –"

"Quiet!" he urged. "I think there's food in the wheelbarrow."

Hermione's mouth salivated at the mere thought of some cold sandwiches. But how could they creep up on this woman and steal her food? What if the food was for the baby? Her stomach rumbled in response. _Forget the baby. The baby has food at home. You need food now. _

_Your parents taught you better. _

_...they're not here now. _

She nudged Tom in the ribs. "We have to distract her away from the wheelbarrow."

He looked at her with something like mild surprise, but nodded all the same. He had found a heavy rock on the ground and was moving it from one hand to the other, as if contemplating his next move. She noticed his hands were not steady. He was nervous.

"Oh, clever. You'll throw the rock in the distance and see if she follows?" she whispered.

"No, that's silly. I was thinking I could hit her. I'm a good shot, I could aim for the head. But sometimes it takes more than one shot to knock someone down."

Hermione blinked for several long moments, trying to understand the meaning of his words.

A rock to the head. Thrown with enough speed and agility, it could harm someone badly. Could land them in the hospital, too. She knew this from school. Once or twice, a girl had had to be removed to the infirmary.

"You…want to hurt her?"

Tom's face contorted impatiently. "What does that have to do with it? I just hope I get it right the first time."

Hermione felt a strange whoosh in her stomach, the kind she got after something bad had slipped down her throat. Tom was not nervous because he was about to harm someone. His hands were unsteady because he was afraid to _miss_.

Much to her relief, the violence that he might have incurred was prevented.

"All right, Johnnie, you be a sweet boy and stay here while mummy goes to relieve herself," she hummed, placing the babe in a wicker basket, next to the wheelbarrow.

Hermione and Tom both knew this was their chance. They waited until the woman had meandered through the bushes, out of sight, then they leaped out of hiding and scurried towards their game.

She was first to arrive at the wicker basket. _You mustn't make the baby cry._ She carefully removed him and laid him on the grass, under the shadow of a bramble, before diving into the contents of what was before her. Tom was doing the same; he pulled off the cover of the wheelbarrow and foraged for food.

"Ah!" she elicited a small gasp of victory. She'd found some bread and cheese, and some slices of apple too. A meal fit for kings. There was also a bottle of warm milk at the bottom, but she was loath to take it from the mother. The baby needed it more than her, so she only uncorked it and took a long gulp, before putting it back inside. That was a fair deal, wasn't it?

"Tom, what did you find –" she whispered in his direction.

But he was not behind her anymore. And the baby was missing too.

When she turned her head, she only had time to see Tom carry the bundle towards the cabinet.

"Hey -!"

He opened the door and put the baby inside, pressing both hands on the wood, as if to seal it shut.

"Tom!"

Hermione pushed past him frantically and opened the cabinet door. "Don't play jokes like that!"

But it was empty. There was nothing inside, no baby. Only an empty, dark place.

Hermione staggered back in shock.

"I knew it," Tom whispered feverishly. "I knew it would work. I don't know how, but…I knew it would work."

His cheeks were aflame and his eyes were glassy with effervescence. He looked giddy and drunk.

Hermione felt her knees going weak like putty. "No – no – no." She could not manage words.

"It worked. I did it, Hermione. The cabinet's not broken." He was in awe of his own powers, as if with one touch, he had fixed the broken spring and had mastered the magic it contained.

"What have you done?" Her voice was half-terror, half-disbelief. She opened and closed the door again and again, hoping the baby would turn up and they could put it back in the wicker basket, but it didn't. Nothing turned up.

And when she heard the woman traipsing back to them through the bushes, she had to be dragged away by Tom into hiding, because her body was dumb and stupefied. She didn't even notice he'd put a hand over her mouth. She didn't even notice she was moaning.

But her eyes were left intact and she could see, from their vantage point, the aftermath of their crime. Of _Tom's_ crime.

Pinned to his chest, Hermione could hear his heart thwacking wildly, the sound an axe makes when it fells a tree. His body was restrained energy, ready to discharge.

"Johnnie?"

The woman looked about in confusion. She laughed a shrill laugh. "Where could you have gone to? You can barely crawl!"

But then, by degrees, her voice grew thin and desperate.

"Johnnie! Johnnie! My baby!" She sounded like a banshee who had arrived at someone's deathbed.

She turned the wicker basket upside down, searched through the grass and the brambles and the bushes, upended her wheelbarrow and marched through the array of furniture, knocking down anything that could hide her babe. She pulled the cabinet door open, but just like before, there was no one there.

"Johnnieeeee!" she screamed, turning around aghast. "Where's my baby!?"

Hermione wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, but something inside her forbade it. She couldn't bear the screeching lament, but she could neither turn her back on it. She had to watch, she had to be a witness. Because she had let it happen.

"Where's my baaabyyyyy?" the woman howled inconsolably, falling down on her hands and knees like a doll whose strings had been cut off. She beat her fists to the ground, as if she could make him appear by sheer will alone.

Hermione turned a fraction towards Tom. His chin was just above her eye-level. His face was flushed with a rosy light and his pupils were dilated. He breathed hard through his nostrils. His handsome features were pinched like a corset's stays and every line betrayed a thrill.

His lips moved without words. His eyes were far away. He was in raptures.

Such a simple thing, putting a baby in a cabinet. Yet what a glorious outcome. Magic could change the fate of man in the blink of an eye. And he had witnessed it first-hand. No, he had _enacted_ it.

"Come on. She'll start looking everywhere," he beckoned in her ear and pulled her with him, not uphill this time, but to the left, deeper into the valley.

Hermione was still confounded. Her mind was addled, and she could no more see in front of her than if she had been in the dark. She had visions of a crying baby being cast away into a hideous bookshop, the one they'd left behind. She saw a horrid, bearded man cram a tiny white bundle down his gullet. She heard him laugh. _No children allowed. _

"Don't be sick now," Tom warned, pulling at her waist to stand up. She was heaving, about to double over with nausea.

But somewhere inside her head, the old reptilian brain urged her to pull through, so she ran as fast as she could. Away from the woman and the baby and the bearded man. And Tom.

"Where's my babyyyy?!" the mother wailed, running in circles behind them.

* * *

If she stood like that for a long time, with her eyes facing backwards, it looked as if the sun was coming out of the valley, instead of dropping down underneath. But the coldness which had long since settled on the surface of the earth could not be ignored. The chill in her bones was real, and a blessing, for the day had been hot and relentless.

Tom ate with a fiendish appetite. The bread and cheese was nearly gone. She had only nibbled on two slices of apple. She could not stomach anything else. They had found a quiet brook underneath a thick copse and she had drunk copious amounts of water, which she had thrown up in the same breath. Tom had looked away in disgust. He could not understand why she was still so _afflicted_ by the afternoon's events.

Hermione now lay on her back and watched the darkening sky with a sense of dispassionate recklessness. Whatever happened now - happened. The worst had come to pass. Her hands were dirty, not because she had done something, but precisely because she had done nothing.

A mother might never see her child again. That child might die. Or it might grow up among strangers, never knowing it once belonged to someone.

She turned her head towards Tom. _Is that what happened to you?_

No. He was probably not even thinking of himself. He was not thinking of people, anyway. Of human life or family or love. He was only thinking of the clever trick he had pulled.

"Stop sulking, Hermione. That mewling thing will be fine. You really think a little trip to Knox Alley will kill it? If so, he never stood a chance in the world anyway."

"How can you be so heartless?" she asked, her voice scratchy and hoarse. It was the mother who had screamed, but her throat felt raw instead.

"_Heartless_? Did you not see the incredible thing that happened, Hermione?"

"You turned him into an orphan."

"You don't know that! And stop thinking of the _baby_! Think about the magic! What we accomplished!"

"We? I did nothing!"

Tom sneered. "Yes, and you're proud of that, aren't you? Good Gods, the magic is wasted on you."

Hermione raised herself on her elbows. She looked at him with contempt. "How do you know it was you?"

"What?"

"How do you know it was you that made it work? Maybe it was all chance. Maybe the cabinet is broken, and it only works every now and then. Maybe you had _nothing_ to do with it."

"It can't simply be a coincidence –"

Hermione raised her chin defiantly. "Everything is a coincidence. The universe is full of random acts. Or haven't you read about that yet?"

She could see his fingers clutching at air. His face was cast in shadows; a trick of the sunset, or an effect of his temper.

"Don't mock me just because you're jealous."

"Jealous? Without me, your _Lumos_ was barely a night light!" She instinctively touched the pocket inside her jacket. She had taken ownership of the wand for the time being. He had agreed to it, partly to assuage her hysterics about the baby, and partly because he had not forgotten how determined she had been to destroy it.

"Go on, then. Cast your own _Lumos_. You'll find you're the one who needs _me_," he spat derisively.

Secretly, he wanted to try it together again. It had been such a wonderful feeling, standing there as the pure white light bathed them, purified them, made them powerful. Their hands had felt gigantic around the piece of wood. They had wielded a great weapon of the gods.

But he knew she would not do it, not now when she was still hung up on that _stupid_ baby.

"I will. But I won't do it in front of you. I don't have to prove myself to you," she muttered darkly.

"Ah, right. Because you almost set those ruffians on fire. Remember that? And yet you're upset about a child."

"It was an _innocent_ child! It had done nothing to us!"

"And how do you know those idiots who attacked us weren't just hungry and angry and desperate? It's no secret we're living some _shit_ times."

Hermione flinched. "Don't say that."

"Why are you always so bothered by cuss words? They're just _words_."

"_Lumos_ isn't just a word," she countered.

Tom laughed a short, mean laugh. "You think there's a spell with a cuss in it? Like if I say, _bloody fuck _and flick a wand_, _you think a giant red cock would pop up and –"

Hermione put her hands over her ears. "Stop it, stop it! That's horrid! Ugh!"

She had an inkling of what "cock" meant. Some of the older girls had talked about boys with thick cocks and at the time, she had imagined there was a fat rooster growing out of a boy's pelvis and she had felt sorry for the rooster. The truth was probably a lot worse. The image she came up with was like something out of a foul nightmare. She remembered Tom had stripped naked, that first night in the house. They were eight. She had seen something amiss, an alien anatomy. But it had nothing to do with cocks, or roosters, or bloody -

Tom laughed again, his voice brittle. "You're almost eleven. You really should learn to use them."

"I'm older than you by four months! And even when I grow up, I won't do it - it's just disgusting, talking like that. It's ugly." She shuddered and thought about the baby and Knox Alley and a furious red bulge that grew and grew until it covered every shop and every corner of the street in a red, suppurating gangrene.

She shook her head, to dispel the ghastly image.

There was silence for a while, and only the clip-clop of water accompanied the crickets and the gnats in their nightly conversation.

"We should return this wand soon," she spoke, looking up at the inverted sunset. The sun was almost gone now. "We should buy new ones for each. There was a shop in Sherwood Alley, just for wands."

_Well, __**I'**__ll get a new wand. You don't really need one. You'd just use it for nasty things_, she thought warily.

She wondered if the wand's real owner was somewhere out there, desperately searching for it. She wondered if he had put an ad in the paper, or if he had gone to the police. _The magical police?_ There must be something like it.

She glanced at her brother.

Tom was looking at the dying sun too, but his mind was elsewhere.

"You think the woman's gone now?"

Hermione rubbed at her eyes tiredly. "If she has, she'll return with her husband."

"Yeah. We should get a move on."

"_Where_ will we go?" she mouthed despondently. "Even if they find us, and we tell them what happened to the baby, they won't believe us."

"Are you mad? We _won't_ tell them what happened!"

"Right, there's no point, because they'll think we probably drowned him," she said with spite, staring at the brook and its slippery waters.

Tom kicked a stone with his foot. "You know, you're the only one talking about killing the thing. I never even _thought_ of that."

"That's just it, you don't _care_ one way or another. Dead or alive, what does it matter to you?"

He sighed and crouched down by the muddy bank. He filled his fists and drank, letting the water dribble down his chin. He wiped his mouth.

"You're stupid," he concluded, finally. "I'm trying to talk to you about magic and theory, and you're just a brat."

Hermione watched the last rays disappear from the trees' branches. The leaves turned grey.

"Why did you want to get rid of me in Sherwood Alley?"

Tom's head snapped up.

"You did it several times. Ran ahead of me or tried to disappear. You never told me to wait for you at the owl emporium. You just _vanished_."

He brought his hand up to one of the branches and pulled on it until it bent in half. He shrugged.

"You're wrong."

"No. I'm not."

"If I was trying to get rid of you, would I take you with me right now? Come on, we have to go."

* * *

It was a rundown shack, some kind of sheepfold which had been deserted. It was full of fleas and the smell was not very inviting, but they had a semblance of a roof over their heads and the hay was not too rough on her face. They huddled together for warmth, his breath tickling the back of her neck. His fists were buried in her back, but he was not holding her by the middle. She was grateful for that. She had little energy to argue anymore about anything. It seemed like ages since they had left home.

_Only two days, in fact._

In the morning, she'd find a way to convince him to return. Or else she'd go alone. The adventure was over. It had never properly begun. It had seemed beautiful at the start, but it had never been genuine. The baby was somewhere in the world, alone, hungry and afraid. _Or dead._ _Dead_. _Dead_.

She scrunched her eyes shut and heard the woman's wail. _Where's my babyyyy?! Johnnieeeee!_

"I'm sorry."

Hermione stirred. She had almost fallen asleep. Had _she_ said those words? No, she must have imagined them. Tom would rather die than –

"I said I'm sorry."

Her heart lifted a little at his apology. She tried to keep her voice terse.

"It's too late to be sorry now. The baby's gone. But…at least you realize you did something wrong."

Tom scoffed. "No, you daft goose. I meant about Sherwood Alley."

"Huh?" She turned towards him, both mystified and annoyed that he didn't appear to regret his actions, after all.

"You…were right, about what you said before. I did vanish on you on purpose. But I didn't abandon you."

"What are you talking about?"

Their faces were close and she could see every flicker of doubt in his blue eyes. He was deliberating whether to tell her the truth.

"It was just a game…well, I suppose a stupid game. I wanted –" He stopped and looked down at his fists.

She waited in silence.

"I was watching you, to see how you'd react if I left. You had this lost look in your eye, like you couldn't go on without me. You kept searching for me in the crowds, calling my name over and over. I liked it. I wanted you to keep doing it."

Hermione sucked in a breath. She knew he was telling the truth, because he didn't look too pleased to admit it, although a part of him probably relished throwing her off-balance. He never ceased to surprise her.

"You…liked it?"

She saw reflected in his features the same thrill he had derived from watching the mother cry after her child.

Tom's expression darkened. "You couldn't understand. You've always been _wanted_. You were born in a family who decided they wanted a child. People wanted you around. If you disappeared, they would miss you."

_They do miss me_, _probably,_ she thought sadly.

But what she said, instead, was:

"They miss us both, Tom."

He ignored her words. "I wanted to see what it was like."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "I don't get it."

"I told you, you wouldn't understand –"

"No, not _that_. I got your meaning. It's just that, you're the perfect little boy in front of Mum and Dad and they love you for it. The boys at the grammar school probably worship you, too. Most are afraid of you anyway. And the girls…well, you saw how Elspeth reacted to you. I don't do half the mean things you do, but you're the one who's well-liked. What _more_ could you possibly want?"

Tom rolled on his back and looked up at the broken roof beams.

"They love whatever I give them to love. A clever cameo I made of myself. No one loves me for me. _All_ of me. Nasty, mean, brilliant. A madman and a dreamer. They'd flee if they knew."

Hermione snorted. "Have you been reading Shakespeare again?"

"It's not funny," he scowled, but there was a bit of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Let me guess. Richard the Third."

Tom blushed, which was a rare, but amusing sight. "Shut up."

He sounded like a child, underneath all that morbid ensemble.

Hermione watched him intently. "I thought you didn't want to be loved. _Ever._ You said it's stupid. You said it's better to be feared. What changed your mind?"

He twisted his mouth angrily and pushed himself away from her.

"Why don't you just piss off?"

Hermione felt the words' sting on her cheek. He had been talking so nicely, only to ruin it at the end. _Piss_, indeed.

"You're the one who started it. If you want to be _loved_ so much," she taunted, "why don't you just stop being a – a git?"

She knew it was a bad word, but it felt a little liberating to say it out loud. Maybe not all cuss words were ugly.

He sneered. "As if I'd ever want anything from _you_."

"Then why did you even take me with you?"

"I told you why, you're a liability –"

"No, that's not it. You know I would've kept your secret. I wanted you to leave anyway. It would have been _perfect_."

Tom flinched, or at least she thought he did, because his body jerked further away.

"I take back my apology," he retorted.

"Good. I don't need it."

"Then get the hell out of here."

"You _can't_ kick me out, we found this place together!" she protested.

"Then I'll leave!" he snapped, pushing past her through the broken door, into the open night.

Halfway down the slope, he turned back and looked at her. "The wand, give me the wand."

"No."

"I said give it to me."

He marched up to her and held out his palm, as if expecting her to comply.

"What do you need it for?" she demanded. But he was already at her throat, trying to keep her still while he extracted the wand.

"You bastard!" she shouted, pushing him off, but he had already grabbed one end of the stick. She grabbed the other end. They both pulled desperately in their own direction.

"Stop it!"

"You stop it!"

"Let go!"

"You let go!"

"Hermione -!"

"Tom -!"

The wood gave in, and splintered right in the middle. The crack ignited a small spark, like miniature fireworks, and then everything went quiet. All the night sounds melted into the faraway mist. The stars flickered and disappeared.

The remains of the wand fell lifeless on the wet ground.

Neither of them said anything. She expected Tom to shout at her and throw vicious accusations, how it was all her fault, how she had broken it. Maybe he'd pick up a big rock and try to cave her head in. Maybe he'd push her in a cabinet, so she would vanish from the world.

Didn't she want to do that to him, deep down?

But he turned away and covered his face. She stumbled back and held her shivering shoulders.

If he was crying, she couldn't hear the sobs. He was just immobile, hidden and yet immeasurably sad. She stood there in the cold, waiting for him to leave or stay. She had a strange foreshadowing that this would be her life from now on; waiting for him to leave or stay.

She felt an icy wetness dribbling down her foot. The one that was bare. She looked down. A small creature had slithered past her into a hole. She was thankful she still had kept one boot on.

The other one was probably still in the middle of the road where she'd left it.

Her heart lurched. The woman would turn back on the road and see the missing boot. She would know someone had been there, after all. She would find her. And she would punish her, because she had done nothing to stop Tom.

"Tom. Tom, please let's go."

She jogged up to him in a panic. He still had his face covered with his hands. She gently touched his fingers, but he held on fast. She applied pressure, but she couldn't pry them apart. He groaned and elbowed her in the collarbone.

"Fuck off."

She blinked the insult away. Her skin had grown thick, or she had gotten used to it by now.

"Please, let's just get out of here. I'm afraid –"

Hermione's words were muffled by a loud pop in their vicinity. Tom removed his hands from his face.

A man in billowing robes was standing before them. He had his wand pointed at them. A spell they were all too familiar with was making the tip glow bright.

His face was cast in shadow, but a long row of white teeth glinted impishly in the dark. He was grinning.

"Good evening, children. I'm glad to see you're still in one piece. It's a good thing you broke that wand. The magical burst was powerful enough to track you down. I must say, it's been quite a journey. Ah, I'm afraid the owner won't be too happy about this," he said, picking up the remains of the wand.

Hermione recognized the funny-looking striped suit, and the bulging suitcase he was carrying in his left hand. He was the same man who had come out of their parents' house.

"Not to worry. The Ministry shall take care of that," he concluded cheerily, slipping the broken pieces into his pocket. "Come, let's get you somewhere warm and nice, shall we?"

Tom grabbed her arm, sinking his nails into her skin with desperate urgency. He had recognized the man too.

"Run," he whispered. "_Now_."

But Hermione was tired of this game. The man standing in front of her had probably never left a baby in a magical cabinet. His smile was inviting, and for some reason, she felt she could trust him. He would take her back home. He would be kind.

She wrenched herself away from Tom's grip and stepped forward.

"I'd like to go, Sir."

She didn't look back. If she had, she would have seen Tom's face fall apart. A blow which, once given, could not be taken back. He staggered on his feet, swayed like a ship lost at sea without an anchor.

The man in the flowing robes gently took hold of her hand. Hermione looked down at her feet.

"Young man? There's nowhere to run, you know."

When she found his eyes again, there was only pure hatred reserved for her there, the kind that rips you to pieces and feasts on your carcass. He had looked at her like that the first time he'd seen her. They were at the beginning again, but no – everything had changed.

* * *

**A/N:**

**For those of you wondering what the deal was with that Vanishing Cabinet (was it broken? did it only work now and again?), you'll find more about it next chapter.**

**Also, hi!**

**It's been quite a while, hasn't it? I'm really sorry about the delay, but this massive chapter took a while to write, since I wanted it to sound and read just right (which means I kept re-editing it like crazy). I'm particular like that. I hope it turned out all right! I'm still not used to the number of reviews but I am so grateful for all of them and for your kind support! **

**I have a lot of anonymous people to thank so let's get to it: Guest1 (I'm glad you do, because I feel they need to spend some time together figuring it out before going to Hogwarts), Anon (if you've read this chapter, you already found out why Tom seemed to "leave" Hermione at one point. Anyway, I'm glad you liked all the details I added about the magical world, and the inclusion of the war, of course. I want to keep it historically and politically accurate too.), Greenwood (haha, thank you, I try), Guest2 (to answer your question, yes, it's a vanishing cabinet), Guest3 (well, then, you probably enjoyed this huge chapter), Iwantreadmore (thanks a lot, and here's more!), Jenny (aww, thank you, I'm really flattered, and I hope you liked this installment!), Guest4 (thanks a lot!), Guest5 (weeell, nope, but good try! Hogwarts was the red herring here), Anon2 (thanks!), Maheera Raaz (thank you, your comparison was lovely, I didn't think of the Arabian Nights when I wrote it, but you're right, it matches the mood and atmosphere to a certain extent so, clever observation!), Alice (thank you so much for saying that, because one of the things I struggle with is balancing their dynamic between horror and affection, or alienation and intimacy. So far, any real affection they might have for each other is muddied with obsession for Tom and dread + fascination for Hermione, so I'm really glad that's coming across! I do enjoy the codependent trope a lot, but with some minor twists along the way. Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter!), TheMargo (I can't tell you how thrilled I was when you mentioned the fact that the story doesn't just read like it's taking place in the Harry Potter universe, because I am trying to also make the world somewhat unique to this fic, so thank you! I feel like the HP realm could be expanded and explored in so many creative ways. Also, am honored by comparisons to old-fashioned children's books since I love those!), Guest6 (thanks a lot and updated!), Guest7 (aww, thank you, I'm flattered!), Guest8 (updated! and sorry for the wait), Guest9 (thanks a lot, I hope this chapter made up for the wait), Guest10 (thanks!), Guest11 (the other stories aren't abandoned either, no worries!), Emm (oh gosh, thanks! I'm really glad you think so), Guest12 (I'm assuming this is for the playlist? If so, I approve), That girl (thank you, I'm glad you like long chapters because apparently I don't have a word limit haha), Guest13 (Haha, I could never write a Tom warming up story, because I feel that would take more talent than mine and frankly a major tweaking of the character we love, but anyway, I'm glad you like my version), Guest14 (thanks a lot, glad it's among your favorites!), Guest15 (thank you!), Guest16 (thanks &amp; updated!).**

**See you next time! (hopefully sooner!)**


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

The sweet aroma wafted into his nostrils and made his mouth water. He eyed the silver tray with suspicion. The delicately cut sandwiches, the marmalade, the scones, all beckoned to him for a taste, but he would sooner drop dead than touch what the wizard had set before him.

He had already betrayed himself when he had stared, transfixed, at the small mottled creature that had carried the tray into the room.

His fool of a sister had been more emphatic in her reaction.

"What are they?" she had inquired with a nauseating degree of awe.

"Oh, house elves, my dear. Very obedient and intelligent race, despite their untoward appearance," the man had replied cheerily.

"Hello," she had waved stupidly at the creature. The beak-nosed thing had only lowered his head and scuttled away in fear.

"Don't be distraught. They are private little things, you see," the wizard had been quick to explain.

"Oh, I'm so sorry I disturbed him."

They were already getting on famously, the simpering idiots. Hermione was practically frothing at the mouth, doing her very best to ingratiate herself with this complete stranger. _Lackwit_, he thought with rancour. But the man was no better. He held some dubious position in something called "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement" and he went by the name of Crawfoot. He bragged a great deal about his house, and how an old aunt of his had left it for him in complete ruins but he had taken great pains to restore it, "turning my humble abode into a palace of comfort".

"It's very cosy, Sir," she replied meekly.

Tom sneered at them and looked about the room unimpressed. He'd seen houses like this before. Mrs. Cole would take the children on yearly calls to the orphanage's respective patrons. The visits usually took place right around Christmas, and they made everyone feel awful, because they had to watch parents and children sitting comfortably by the fire, sipping hot cocoa from their fine china, while the orphans sang an off-key rendition of _Joy To The World._

This garishly bedecked house and its sorry master were no different. In fact, he could hardly believe such a simpleton was magical.

"Thomas, won't you have a bite to eat?"

He cringed, but only gripped the edge of his chair. "_Tom_."

"I'm sorry, _Tom_. Is there something else you'd like to eat? My house elf is a proficient cook."

"Thank you," he replied with polite contempt, "but don't trouble yourself for me, Sir. I'd much rather be allowed to leave."

It was hard to maintain the delicate veneer of civility that otherwise came so easily to him. He was trembling from head to toe with barely concealed rage. He was even frightened, deep down, that he would never know another feeling again. His insides throbbed, like wounds that had festered and now itched with a vengeance. It was painful to know you had been so close to freedom, only for it to be wrenched away at the last minute.

Hermione felt no such pain. She was even now drinking her tea like the good little girl she was. He would have pitied her, if he did not find her absolutely revolting.

"I'm afraid I can't grant you that yet, Tom. But you shall soon go home, I promise. Your parents are eager to have you back, of course."

"…are they very angry?" she asked with trepidation.

"Angry? Oh, no, my dear, they can't possibly be. They understand it's all been very new for the both of you. Why, any person would act rashly under such circumstances. Imagine being thrown into a whole new world where everything is topsy-turvy! Ah, children from Muggle families always suffer the worst shocks."

Tom stared at the whites of his knuckles, and the way the bones protruded sharply from his skin. He would have liked to throw the silver tray at the man's head. _We are no Muggles. _

"The very night you ran away," he continued, unaware of Tom's scalding fury, "I broke the news to your parents that you are magically gifted. They took it well enough, I believe. I'm quite sorry if I gave you a fright. You must have found me a strange apparition. Muggle clothes are a mystery to me."

"We thought you were going to take us away," Hermione admitted, putting down her cup.

_What is she doing, telling him such things?_ Tom wondered with mad despair. Had he so overestimated her feeble brain?

"We thought you were going to try and cure us or take the magic out," she continued, biting her lip until it turned a bright red.

"Oh, you poor children! These Muggle wars have fashioned you with the strangest ideas!" Crawfoot bemoaned, pulling at his tie-knot in distress.

"We wouldn't have run otherwise, we just didn't know. We should have waited," she admitted in a soft voice. She looked perfectly forlorn.

Tom pursed his lips and stared down at his scuffed shoes. They had been brand new once, but they looked ravaged and ready to break off his feet. Was she doing this on purpose? Playing the innocent victim to string up the buffoon? He was angry and confused. Her misery seemed sincere, as did the maudlin words that came out of her mouth.

_What does it matter? She still betrayed me_, he thought bitterly.

"Well, what's done is done and we should be thankful I found you as soon as I did before more trouble came out of your little adventure," Crawfoot put in calmly. "The Ministry does not look fondly on performing magic in front of Muggles."

Tom had heard enough of this Ministry to distrust it entirely. If this man worked for such an institution, it could not be very prestigious or worth taking into account. And what was this business of controlling magic? Why would wizards punish wizards for what came naturally to them?

"But we didn't perform magic in front of Muggles, Sir," Hermione chimed in softly. "We were in Sherwood Alley."

"Yes, and before that you had an altercation with a group of boys. I believe one of you tried to choke them, while the other set fire to a schoolbag." The man's voice had become cool and inflexible and he scrutinized them with small but fierce eyes. "I must say, that was badly done, children."

Hermione's hands almost went to her throat unconsciously, but she stopped in time and settled them in her lap. She held her thumbs together, as if she were praying in silence.

"But, Sir, they attacked us first. They gave my – my brother a bloody nose. We didn't mean any harm, we swear it. We don't even know _how_ we did it... It was only self-defence," she stammered with remorse. "We'd never do it again."

Tom remembered the thrill of their victory and how they had laughed at their cowardly opponents, fleeing for their lives. Hermione had looked at the fire with pride.

"And do you share your sister's feelings, Tom? Would _you_ ever do it again?" Crawfoot asked, turning towards him with a knitted brow.

_Would I ever fight by her side, or laugh with her again? _

"No. Never."

"Good. I hope you have both learned a hard lesson from this. Violence is never the answer. I understand the Muggle world is rife with all sorts of dangers and your parents have unfortunately raised you on the back of barbaric Muggle wars, but that is not something you must in any way emulate. When you receive your Hogwarts letter, I have faith you will honour this promise."

_Barbaric…what does he know about it, with his big stupid house and his small ugly elf? _His animosity was growing stronger. But why should he care for that? _He_ wasn't a Muggle, so the insult had nothing to do with him. And yet, Henry and Cora were decent enough. Narrow, gullible people, yes - but decent. He looked down at his shoes again. His parents had bought this pair and it had stood him well in bad weather.

"Hogwarts letter?" Hermione asked, disoriented by the new information. "What do you mean?"

"Why, certainly you'll be going to school soon. It's only June now, but come September, you'll be on your way to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

_That_ had the warranted effect on both of them. Hermione's eyes lit up with curiosity. Tom opened his mouth and closed it quickly, waiting for the wizard to say more about this mysterious school. But the shrewd Crawfoot kept silent, watching them intently. After a while, he brought the tea cup to his lips and sipped absently.

"We will have time to speak about your schooling later, but we must prepare for the Ministry audience tomorrow."

"Ministry audience?" Hermione asked uneasily.

"Not to worry, children. You are both only ten years of age. You won't incur any serious punishment from those quarters, I promise you. But it _is_ in your best interest to tell a true and honest account of your…enterprise. Shall we go over what happened in Upper Flagley?"

Tom wrinkled his nose at the name. Crawfoot had told them they'd been found outside a wizard village.

"Plenty of Muggles live around it too, but the village is hidden from their eyes," he had explained with a gratifying sense of importance. "Sometimes, accidents occur when our two worlds collide. That is why we are always on duty."

_Duty. Your duty is to hide the wizarding world from everyone else_, he thought with annoyance. Yet, he needn't worry about it anymore, because he _was_ part of the wizarding world. He had always been part of it.

"The cabinet. Let's start with the cabinet," Crawfoot invited them, innocuously enough.

Hermione began to speak mechanically, as if she were reciting her lesson in front of the classroom. She mentioned Knox Alley and the nefarious bookshop they had explored against their better judgement, but the man interrupted her politely.

"Yes, you've already told me about that. But what about the rest? What happened when you landed in the middle of nowhere?"

"Well…" Hermione trailed off with uncertainty. "We were scared. We had no idea how we'd got there. We…tried to go back. We figured the cabinet must be magical. If it had brought us there, it might take us back too. But it didn't, no matter how many times we tried."

"Understandable, of course."

"After that, we just abandoned it. It wasn't going to work, so we decided to walk away." She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It kept sliding down her back.

"Yet it did work, didn't it? At least _once_," Crawfoot intervened, quirking up an eyebrow.

Hermione felt the blanket slip from her grip. Tom drew his legs under the chair and forced himself to breathe evenly. The back of his head felt red and hot.

"S-Sorry, Sir?"

"Well, we happened to receive a magical signal from it _after_ you'd landed in Upper Flagley."

"Ooh. That's because we tried to make the cabinet work with leaves and twigs and broken bits," she explained hurriedly.

"That might be so, but the magical signal was from a living being."

Hermione balked. "Perhaps…when one of us got inside the cabinet…I don't know for sure..."

"You said it did not work on any account, my dear."

"It didn't..."

Crawfoot placed his tea cup on the silver tray and rose ponderously, stretching his long feet in front of him. Tom watched him with strained nerves. Was he going to shake the truth out of Hermione? Was he going to force her to speak in some gruesome way? He possessed a wand, after all.

_And I don't, because Hermione broke it_, he was reminded bitterly. _So let him hurt her. _

Crawfoot came up behind Hermione's chair. Tom couldn't help but clench his fists until the nails dug into his palms. If it came to that, he would grab a cup and smash it in his big, hairy nose. He would.

_No. _

_Don't do it. He's not hurting you. He's only hurting her. Just her._

But a rush of pure fire seemed to course through his veins. He was prepared to watch with relish as the wizard punished his traitor sister, but he was also prepared to hurt him back tenfold, and he was torn between these two warring instincts.

Crawfoot disappointed on both accounts. He simply pulled the blanket around Hermione's shoulders and tied it into a knot at her throat.

"There, that should be better."

Yet Hermione was visibly shaken. Perhaps that had been the point. She thanked him silently, even though her hands were itching to tear the knot apart.

Crawfoot resumed his seat in the chair before them.

"Well, then? Are you ready to tell me what happened? There's nothing to fear, I promise."

Hermione's cheeks were tinted pink, but she looked at the wizard with steady resolve. Tom felt needles pricking down his spine. _She's going to tell him I put the baby in. I don't care. Let her do it. Let him hear it. I don't care a jot if he has a wand. They can both go to hell._

A few moments passed in silence before she spoke.

"It was my fault."

"Your fault?" Crawfoot echoed patiently.

"We – we found a baby lying in a basket a couple of feet away. There was no one else around, so I - I picked him up. He was asleep. I told Tom we should take him with us. We couldn't just leave him there… he'd been abandoned in the middle of all that junk. But Tom said we shouldn't, because he didn't belong to us. When we heard footsteps approaching, I panicked. I didn't know it was the mother. I opened the cabinet and I - I hid the baby inside. I know it was wrong. It was a _horrible_ mistake. I just didn't think the cabinet would work after we'd tried so many times. When I opened the door, he was just _gone._ Tom grabbed my hand and we ran away before the mother could catch us."

She stopped for breath. She sounded hoarse now and her voice was cracked with misery. Tom met her eyes for the first time that night and stared into them for a long moment.

There was a faint wetness on her eyelashes, but there was a hardness there that only he could see.

"It's all my fault," she moaned, putting a hand over her face, and cutting off his stare. "It's all my fault, I shouldn't have done it. But I panicked and I didn't think, and I was so scared! I'll always hate myself for it. I could have saved him. I could have…"

She sounded earnest, much too earnest. Tom swallowed the thickness in his throat. _She's not lying. She still regrets what happened to the baby. Stupid girl…_

Yet not entirely stupid, he admitted begrudgingly.

She started to cry softly, holding her face in her hands. You could only tell by the small shudders that wracked her body.

Crawfoot leaned forward in alarm. His face no longer looked smug. "Oh, no, let's have none of that now! Please, hush. No one here blames you for what you did. This has all been a misunderstanding, my dear."

"It's all my fault," she repeated in a muffled sob.

"Miss Granger," Crawfoot tried gently, reaching out to pat her arm, "you meant no harm. If there is anyone to blame here it is the Blacks. They were the ones who sold a broken Vanishing Cabinet without consulting our Department. And they'll be made to answer for it, Pureblood or no."

Tom frowned. _The Blacks? Who are they? _They sounded important and interesting. But that other word weighed on him more and made him feel cold and uncomfortable. _Pureblood. _

Hermione shook her head and kept on sobbing.

"Oh, hush, my dear, we'll find the poor babe!"

"Will you?" she managed between haggard breaths.

Crawfoot seemed to hesitate. "Well, we shall try, of course."

It took a good ten minutes for the wizard to comfort Hermione. He called out a name that sounded like "Colly" and the ugly little elf appeared in the doorway again, like a ghost which had been lying in wait.

"Fetch some cold compresses for our guests and some handkerchiefs too," he ordered precipitately, and the little creature ran off to obey.

When she finally seemed able to look at them again, her eyed were red-rimmed and her nose was wet. She looked like a poor mouse, a creature more pitiable than the elf itself.

Tom felt hot and cold. The sweat had chilled his back, but his palms were burning. It was damnably strange to look at her cry, because he knew her sorrow was honest, and yet another part of him knew that it was not. Not exactly. She had _lied_. And it was easy to forget she had concealed the truth, because her tears were real, as real as the handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes.

"I told Hermione it wasn't her fault," he said quietly, staring at his own burning hands. His voice sounded far-away, perhaps because he did not really wish to speak. But his silence would cast doubt upon her story. He forced himself to go on. "I told her they'd find the baby. I told her they wouldn't blame her. You don't, do you? She was just trying to protect it."

Crawfoot cast him a sidelong glance. "Of course I don't blame your sister, Tom. She is a good, honest girl. Aren't you, Hermione?"

His words were gentle and firm, but his eyes were clouded. Tom couldn't read them well enough, although he prided himself on this particular skill. Wizards were strange. Even this big fat man who lived in an ugly house and had little creatures carry his trays, he was strange too. He could hide things from Muggles, like alleys and villages and schools.

_But I'm __**not**__ a Muggle. I'm a – a Pureblood. Because I have magic. _

"Yes, yes, I want to be good," Hermione mumbled, holding the handkerchief to her nose.

"We'll get this sorted out tomorrow at the Ministry. I'm sure we can prove you and your brother are both very good children who meant no harm. Isn't that right, Tom?"

"Yes, Sir," he replied without hesitation.

* * *

Hermione watched the shadows on the wall. They seemed to dance in the moonlight guided by a will of their own. _Who knows? Maybe they are_. A wizard's house was full of ghosts. Maybe there were other creatures too, hidden away in the attic or in the basement. She hadn't liked the look of that elf. She had never seen someone look so gaunt and starved…it made her want to shrink into her bed. She missed her Mum and Dad so much that she hugged the pillow to her chest. _I'll be going home soon. I will._

It was a pity she wouldn't be going alone.

He was watching her, she could feel it. She might've turned her back to him, but that didn't make his stare any less corrosive.

The wizard had sent them up to rest until morning.

"Colly will knock on your door when it's time to get up. We need to rise early to make our appointment at the Ministry."

The guest room was cluttered with packages and boxes, and there was no bed for either of them, but Crawfoot only had to wave his wand twice, and much to her shock and delight, two little beds appeared at opposite sides of the room. They looked brand new, polished and gleaming, as if they had been carved from wood that very instant. Her pleasure was short-lived, however, when the wizard bid them good night and made to shut the door behind him.

Before his head disappeared, he turned to look at them one last time.

"I should tell you, children, that running away would be harder on you this time. There are magical wards everywhere in the house. Tread with caution, if you must."

She had feared Tom would try to get out of the room anyway, but he had done nothing of the sort. In fact, he had gone straight to bed.

But he wasn't asleep. He was watching her.

She heaved a sigh and turned around, meeting his gaze from across the room.

He looked, as he always did, both grim and ethereally handsome. She remembered his cruel words in the forest. He had seemed so dark and small then, but there had been no moon in the sky.

There was enough light now to see him for what he was, and it would be dangerous to consider him small.

"I didn't need you to lie for me," he whispered with pointed indignation. His chin jutted out from underneath the covers.

"I didn't do it for _you_," she bit back. "I did it for _myself_. Do you honestly think he would have been kind to us if he knew what you did and _why_ you did it?"

"He _wasn't_ kind. He took us by force."

Hermione remembered it well. "Portkey", Crawfoot had called it. He had opened up his bulging suitcase to reveal a shabby looking boot the size of her head. She had stupidly thought he had brought her something to wear for her bare foot. But no. He had set it down on the wet grass and instructed them to grab onto it tightly. "Else you'll lose a limb or two," he had chuckled. It had felt awful, like being wrenched out of your skin and having your brains rattled. The world had spun out of its axis and it had been remade into something completely different. She had fought the instinct to retch the moment her feet had hit the pavement. Tom had not fared any better, but he would never admit it, she knew.

So perhaps the journey had been unpleasant, but they were not hungry and cold and alone, in the middle of nowhere, anymore. And this man had promised to help them on the morrow. If he worked for this Ministry of Magic, he had intimate knowledge of many important things. It would be best to make him a friend of him, and make the Ministry a friend as well…so they could go home, to Mum and Dad…

"He didn't take us by force. I wanted to go with him."

"Oh, I remember, _sis_," he spat venomously. "Don't think your little lie made me forget. I'll never forget."

"I didn't lie for you!" she repeated angrily. "I did the sensible thing! I protected myself. If I'd told the truth, he would have thought – he would have thought I'm sick like you. Sick because I let you do it."

She thought she saw movement under his covers. She was afraid he'd jump out of his bed and lunge at her.

But he didn't. He did nothing. He only stared at her with those cool, glacial eyes, the eyes of ghosts and elves and monsters.

"You betrayed me. You stole my freedom. And you told a wicked lie. You _are_ sick, Hermione. And no wizard or Ministry can save you now."

He smiled then, a beautiful little smile that seemed cut from glass.

"In fact, they see right through you."

She drew back in horror until her head hit the wall. The shadows were crawling in the moonlight.

_You're wrong. You're wrong._

She closed her eyes and kept repeating her desperate chant. _You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong…_

* * *

_Bob Ogden. Do all wizards have stupid names? _

But he was curious, all the same. He felt there was something terrible, yet important behind that name. No matter his misgivings, he needed to find the man.

He tossed and turned in bed, thinking about what Crawfoot had told him when Hermione had gone to wash her face.

"Bob Ogden. He's the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. I work under him directly, you see. I doubt you've heard of him before."

"No, Sir, I have not."

"Just as well. I only mention him because Ogden told me about a particular case he handled some ten years ago. Another wizard performing magic in front of Muggles. It's a fairly common misdemeanour in our line of work. But it was a prickly case, after all. The man was extremely dangerous and his whole family, in fact, were unrepentant law-breakers. They had accosted a young Muggle gentleman and had performed all sorts of spells on him…Anyway, poor Ogden needed reinforcements to bring the family to justice, but I recall the name. Yes, it was Riddle. In fact, Tom Riddle. He was the Muggle in question. Isn't that a curious coincidence? Of course, you are Tom Riddle _Granger,_ and that is entirely different."

He had not said anything more about it and Tom had not dared ask further. After that, the wizard had ushered them to bed.

But his mind was full of bad thoughts and he could not rest.

_I'm __**not**__ a Muggle. I know I'm not. Muggles can't do magic. But what if…what if that Muggle was my father? No. It's only a name. A common name that I possess merely by accident. And besides, Crawfoot could be lying to try and scare me. _

_But I'm not scared. And I'm going to find Bob Ogden._

* * *

**A/N: **

**So, Bob Ogden is the actual canon Ministry employee who went and sought the Gaunt family in the 1920s. Crawfoot is my own invention and Ogden's subaltern. Colly is also a house elf I made up. Upper Flagley is an actual wizard village in canon. And the Cabinet belongs to the Blacks...although, what was one pair during in Upper Flagley, and the other in Knox Alley? We'll find out in future chapters. **

**Anyway, hi! I've updated faster this time around *blows trumpets in celebration***

**Again, I am beyond overwhelmed by your kind reviews and I'd love to just give you a virtual hug. To my anonymous reviewers: Guest1 (thanks a lot, I'm really flattered you like my writing! and I'm glad the baby scene was uncomfortable as all hell, since I was aiming for that. I wouldn't exactly count on the wizard being Dumbledore...which you already figured out if you read this chapter. Dumbledore at this point is teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts and has little business doing the Ministry's work. Buuut he will show up at some point, obviously!) Guest2 (I'm assuming you're the same reviewer as Guest1? Anyway, thanks!), Jessica (thanks so much!), Anon (Aww, thank you, I hope things are going well for you too! You've summed up my feelings really well, and that is the whole gist of their relationship, Tom is drawn to her because he lacks empathy and she has enough for the both of them, but at the same time, he wants her to be more like him and ignore her conscience. Hermione is somewhere in between, which frustrates him. Anyway, excellent review and I hope to keep up the surprises!), Julia (thank you, I'm flattered!), TheMargo (thank you, and I'm really excited for Hogwarts too! And yes, I completely agree, it's unseemly for Tom/Voldemort to be ignorant and hateful of Muggle knowledge since he spent a good chunk of his life in the Muggle world. He's biased, of course, and doesn't like to give credit where credit is due, but he's not as intolerant as people make him out to be. Some of the Malfoy heirs, I feel, were probably a lot more biased against Muggle culture than him), Guest3 (thanks a lot, and well, I wouldn't worry too much since these two are stuck together and have no choice but to work it out. Of course, that won't be a very simple thing and it might involve a lot of violence, deceit and power-playing. The usual Tomione recipe :), Guest4 (thank you, and no worries, I am definitely not abandoning this story, I'm quite attached to it. As for your question, nope, it's not a hint, it's a giant red sign that spells "incest coming". Haha, but seriously, yes this will be a very twisty, incestuous relationship between step-siblings. I hope I do it in a respectful and interesting way, though), Guest5 (I'm glad he made you care for him! That's the thing with Tom, you feel for him because it's not his fault that he has these shortcomings. At the same time, you can't excuse his every action, which is why Hermione lashes out. You can be a tragedy of a character, but if you just use human life willy-nilly, you're still pretty terrible and you deserve to be shot down. Anyway, I love that ambiguous mixture of vulnerability and evil inside Tom), Guest6 (thanks a lot, I'm glad you enjoyed it!), Guest7 (thank you for explaining the "Muggle" mention to the reviewer!), Guest8 (haha, that's the beauty of this pairing, they are in a way, perfect for each other, but in another, more terrifying way they are each other's destruction), Guest9 (oh, gosh, thanks, you're far too kind!), kitchenlitchen (weeell, is it ever truly okay between Tom and Hermione? we'll see how they cope with each other's tempers), Christine Rose (thank you, I hope to keep it unpredictable for a while longer!), Guest10 (aaah, you're making me blush, thank you!), Restricted Section (thank you so much!).**

**See you next time!**


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

Breakfast was unavoidable. At intervals during the night he had found himself gnawing on his own fingers. His insides rebelled at the prospect of another hungry minute. So, he sat down at the parlor table and, ignoring the knife and fork set before him, he grabbed a fat sausage with his bare hands and stuffed it in his mouth, ravenously. Next he crushed a boiled egg in half and licked the remains off his fingers. Then, he lunged for the cup of tea and smeared it with grease and yolk.

Hermione witnessed his gluttony with absolute revulsion. But it was Crawfoot's reaction he was counting on. The man was fingering his handkerchief nervously. His home was his sanctuary, after all, and this was a gross violation.

"My, my, what a healthy appetite," he murmured, blue in the face.

"It's quite delicious, Sir," Tom mouthed with insolence, bits of food still clinging to his lips.

But he was not done gorging himself.

"_Hermione_," he called out sweetly, "do you care to finish that?"

His sister pushed her unfinished porridge in his direction and he wolfed it down gleefully.

After a restless night of tossing and turning and hatching plans of escape, he had decided to change tactics. It was vainglory to brood and hate in silence and deprive himself of sustenance. Why should he suffer while Crawfoot gloated? It should be the other way around.

If they wanted the orphanage boy, he would give them the orphanage boy. Those were always hungry. He reached for another piece of toast.

"Ah, now that we have filled our stomachs, perhaps a good bath is in order."

Tom feigned indifference as he licked his thumb noisily. He had made it his purpose not to be startled by anything this man said.

Hermione coughed politely. "I washed my face and underarms, Sir."

"Oh, but we are going to the Ministry, my dear. We must make the very best impression. Good children always tidy up. And you told me you want to be good?"

"Of course," she assented weakly.

"I don't wish to be rude, but you two still smell of the forest. And young Master Tom is all but coated in strawberry jam. I'll have Colly draw you a nice, warm bath."

Hermione glared at Tom and the muck he'd made at the table. She had forgotten the back-door alleys he'd led her down. The filth had not bothered her then. He would needs remind her. He licked the jam between his fingers.

"I'd like to go first, then," she muttered, rising from her chair.

"Go first? Nonsense, we don't have time for turns. We are running a bit late as it is. Off you go, to the wash room together."

* * *

This would have never been allowed at home. Her mother and father were not brutes. You would have to be a brute to make children bathe together. A girl and a boy were separate from birth, her mother had taught her.

She had seen Tom naked, that much was true. On the very first night, all those years ago, he had exposed himself to her. But they had been eight. They were almost eleven now. Surely, that was no longer decent.

She stood next to the sink and traced the half-moon of her nails. There was still dirt underneath. No matter how much she scratched, it wouldn't go away. Some dirt latched onto your skin and became part of your flesh.

Tom was undressing leisurely. He felt no shame, as usual. He threw his trousers and socks across the room. Colly picked them up without a word and folded them neatly inside a wicker basket. The house-elf had drawn the bath, but refused to leave. She suspected he had been told to supervise them.

Hermione should have been relieved by his presence, but the little creature looked haunted. He was a perfect mirror of her present state of mind.

"Miss? Your clothes?" he asked with a deplorable squeak.

Suppose she couldn't avoid it after all.

She began unbuttoning her blouse under Colly's teary-eyed gaze. Had there ever been a sadder morning in her life?

The only thing that brought her a modicum of joy was the thought of seeing her parents again. Whatever did they think of her now? A magical child – there was nothing more unorthodox and eccentric. Cora and Henry shied away from oddity.

She had read stories about parents who hated their children. That mostly happened in fairy-tales and "grown-up" novels. Usually, parents loved their children no matter what. Even if Mum and Dad hated her, she would still love them. She didn't think she _could_ stop loving them anyway.

Tom was made of different stuff. He did not care one way or another. He'd be _fine_.

She hadn't realized he was watching her. He had one leg hitched up inside the porcelain tub and she could see that little trunk of his dangling between his thighs. It was bigger now, fatter somehow. She wrinkled her nose. A few sparse hairs had grown around it. It made it look even uglier.

Her own body was inadequate, at best. Where there used to be a flat chest now rose two small, yet obtrusive lumps. They made sleeping on her stomach awkward and bumpy. She knew they would only get bigger – which would hinder her nightly rest. Girls were punished with breasts. At least, the opening between her legs was not ugly, like his. There were no hairs yet, just a soft peach fuzz. She saw Tom staring at it intently.

"Come on. Crawfoot said to be fast," he reminded derisively.

His eyes were still fastened to her lower region and he was frowning. As she approached the tub timidly, he muttered, "I bet you'll be hairy."

Hermione grabbed the edge with her fingers. "What?"

"Your cunt will be hairy. Probably for the best. It looks anemic."

_Anemic_, she knew the word. It was related to anemia. Iron deficiency. It meant you had fewer red cells in your body than normal. She had read about it in Lynder's _Blood Curiosities_. Her father had collected a rich medical library at home. No doubt, Tom made use of it too. But she was not anemic. She couldn't be. Her body was a sea of red cells, clusters and clusters of crimson spiders that flowed through her arteries at a dizzying speed. But then suddenly, a great white hand seized and crushed the spiders, and her body slowly withered into a husk of its former self.

Funny how Tom could make her think of such things with just one word.

"Does it even get wet?" he wondered, cocking his head to the side. He had now submerged half his body in the hot water.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's going to get wet right now."

Tom smiled a lugubrious smile. "Is it?"

She ignored him and lowered herself gently in the water. It was not so very bad. The tub was large enough that only their toes touched, but she drew her feet as far away as possible and crossed her arms over her calves.

Hermione was begrudgingly thankful for the warmth. She had not felt cold during the night, but the cool mistral of the forest was still lodged somewhere in her bones.

She leaned her back against the smooth porcelain. She could almost breathe easy. Almost. She still owed him a rebuke.

"If mine looks anemic, yours looks _barbaric_," she spoke, nudging her chin at the wormy little cylinder between his legs. "If it were up to me, I'd have it lopped off."

Hermione had swallowed her spit too quickly. She coughed uneasy. She did not know _why_ she had said that. _Lopped off_. She shuddered at the thought. There would be so much blood. Tom would scream. But a subterranean part of her mind did not think there would be any mutilation. No bloodshed, no pain. A great white hand would seize Tom's dangling member. It's just what happened to horrid little boys.

"Are you talking about cutting off my cock?" he asked, a little incredulous.

She blanched. "No."

"But that's what you meant?"

"Shush. Colly can hear us."

"Maybe you were planning to amputate it in my sleep –"

"No, I would never –" she sputtered.

"How would you do it, then?"

She blinked, unsure if he was making fun. Perhaps silence would have been a better recourse, but she had never been good at staying silent.

"I'm sure there's a spell for it," she said, after a few moments.

"A spell? Now _there's_ an idea. What sort of wizard came up with that, I wonder?"

"Could have been a witch. Actually, it's much more likely it was a witch," she countered, wriggling her toes uncomfortably.

"The cock-lopping witch. Has a certain ring to it. We should ask Colly about it. He doesn't seem to have a cock."

"Tom!" she gasped, sinking her nails in the soft flesh of her thighs.

"But maybe he did, _once."_

"Stop it."

"Don't deny it. You've been wondering what he's hiding under those rags," he teased, raising a perfectly sharp eyebrow.

"You're sick."

"Perhaps that is how you subdue their species. You _lop_ off their genitals."

Hermione cringed. "You won't like it when I vomit all over you, so kindly _shut_ up."

"D'you think Crawfoot did it himself? Or do they sell them already spayed?" he wondered, turning towards Colly with interest.

"You're not saying there's a market for these poor things?" Hermione asked aghast, momentarily forgetting her nausea.

He scoffed. "You think Crawfoot just _happened_ on a creature whose sole purpose is to serve him? Look at him, watching us. I suppose we're the only source of entertainment in his miserable life."

"I doubt he's enjoying your callous remarks," she bickered, keeping her gaze away from the house-elf.

"You're right," he said. Hermione opened her mouth in surprise. She could not remember Tom ever admitting to something like that.

"We're not Colly's entertainment," he elaborated. "We're Crawfoot's. He brings all the children here, makes them undress, has the house-elf watch. Then that dumb creature reports every …unsavory detail back to him."

Hermione's belly rumbled unpleasantly. She really was going to throw up. She brushed wet fingers under her eyes. "Must you make everything sound _horrid?_ Not everyone is out to get you, Tom –"

"You're a fool. And you're also one of them."

"I _lied_ to save your skin!" she whispered furiously.

"I thought you said you didn't do it for me."

"I didn't! But it was certainly to your benefit," she spat, feeling her blood boiling under the skin. She hadn't lied for him, she hadn't. But a little gratitude would not kill him.

_I shouldn't want his gratitude. The baby could be dead._

A tense silence stretched between them, made all the more painful by Colly's quiet vigil. She thought about the house-elf. He must have been a babe, once. He must have had a mother. Someone had snatched him from his family. They had done the same thing.

_The baby could be dead._

She felt hot tears smarting at her eyes. She did not let them drop. Instead, she reached for the soap on the shelf above her head. She started lathering her back. She was going to get cleaned and then dressed and not speak to Tom unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Don't use all of it," he muttered, splashing water around him idly.

Hermione pointedly ignored him. She scrubbed over the two small lumps on her chest and then lowered her hand to her belly, and rubbed the soap between her thighs.

Tom kept playing with the water. He would scoop some in his fists and then let it fall on his back and on his face.

She was afraid he would start splashing _her,_ but he didn't. Perhaps that would have been too normal, too much like what siblings usually did. Instead, he poured some water in his mouth.

And then he spat. On her chest. He spat twice. His saliva dangled from her two small lumps.

"I said don't use all of it. _Bitch,"_ he muttered, wiping his mouth.

Hermione dropped the soap like hot coal. The rage was blinding and all-consuming. A violent storm, it left nothing in its wake. It stamped out fear and disgust, knocked down barriers that civilization had drawn up for a reason. It was a time machine, rage was. It took you back to the beginning.

She lunged at him with a savage growl.

His head hit the back of the tub. Her hands pushed him down hard. She could feel the fragile bones under her palms, could see bubbles escaping his mouth as he was dragged underwater. Her knees dug into his groin and the wormy little cylinder slithered into her lap.

_Bitch...bitch..._

Her mind was feverish and delirious; she was experiencing the greatest elation and the most abject loathing. He was defenseless, and she was on top. She wanted nothing more than to spit into his face. Give him a taste of his own medicine. But she couldn't. Her mouth was too dry; she couldn't summon enough saliva in the back of her throat.

_Bitch...bitch...Cock-lopping witch._

Hermione reached down with one hand and grabbed it. Grabbed his ugly trump and squeezed it viciously. It felt soft and fleshy in her palm, like a scaly fish. She wrenched it up and down, trying to pull off the scales and leave it battered and naked.

Tom's eyes widened underneath the water. He shrieked and moaned and spat a flurry of bubbles to the surface.

Elation triumphed over loathing. She exposed her teeth without smiling. Her fingers were fast and mean, and she was certain she would leave bruises on that wormy flesh. A great white hand had seized him and his body would soon become a husk of its former self.

Tom cried out, but his voice was swallowed by the water.

It was Colly who separated them, who managed to wrestle her off him.

For a tiny, helpless creature he was surprisingly strong.

Hermione stumbled out of the tub in a dizzy stupor. She put her head in the sink and vomited a thin orange soup. Bits of porridge, bits of yolk. He had gorged himself, but she was the one emptying her stomach. She rinsed her mouth at length. There was water everywhere. Where was the soap? She needed to clean herself. She was so dirty.

The house-elf tried to pass her a towel, but she just stood there, watching him stupidly.

Colly peered at her with red-rimmed eyes. He had seen her lose her dignity. She was supposed to be better than Tom. A good child.

"Filthy cow," Tom spat, pushing past her clumsily. He grabbed the towel in her stead and put it round his shoulders.

Hermione blinked. His tone was reproachful, but he was - he was not furious. His chest was heaving, his cheeks were flushed. There was spittle on his chin. But he was not going to attack her.

She shuddered when she saw that his - his cock had changed. It wasn't wormy anymore. It was bulging upright, stiff as wood.

* * *

Hermione could still taste the pungent remains of her modest breakfast. They lingered in the walls of her mouth, coating her throat with a stinging warmth. She was clean, but she felt worse for wear. Not that she had fared splendidly before. But there hadn't been such a sense of chaos inside her. She was afraid to give the feeling a proper name. _Shame._ Ten going on eleven is a difficult age. Children feel everything so completely. Shame is not just shame. It's _all_ the shame in the world.

She stood in the hallway dejectedly, wishing the carpet could swallow her. This might have been the start of puberty; a juvenile desire to sink beyond the floorboards.

Did Tom feel the same as her?

No, he never did.

The skin at the back of her neck prickled. Was he watching her? She did not care to find out. She heaved a sigh and tasted the vomit at the back of her throat. She wanted to run upstairs and wash her mouth once more, but she stood still, and waited.

"Right this way, children," Crawfoot beckoned, leading them into a separate drawing room where a giant sculpted fireplace prevailed over the larger part of a wall. It looked like a claw, or a gaping black mouth, and it was unlike any of the wizard's comfortable, homey furniture. A great orange fire roared inside, but it did nothing to soften the frightening design.

Perched on the mantelpiece, she saw an old bronze urn. It was speckled with glitter, or something that shone like silver.

Crawfoot pushed them forward. "Come now. Don't be alarmed. It's only our means of transport."

Hermione balked. Did he mean to _burn_ them? She had read all about witches burned at the stake in the past centuries, and she knew they had died screaming. None had survived.

Had Colly told him what had happened in the bathroom? Was this how he intended to punish them?

Tom had stopped walking too. He probably did not relish being turned into crisp ashes either.

"Sir, we've done nothing wrong," she said in a small voice. It was not entirely true, but she had already lied about so many things that it did not matter anymore.

"Well, that's what we intend to tell the Ministry," he agreed with a nod. "Now, grab some powder from the urn, if you please."

Neither of them took a step forward.

Crawfoot sighed, pulling at his whiskers with a frustrated tug. "Muggle teachings again! Wizards and witches should _never_ be scared of a fireplace. I will show you. This here is Floo Powder. We will use it to arrive at the Ministry on time. No harm shall come to you, I promise."

He sank his hand inside the bronze urn and dropped a handful of powder in her palm. He did the same with Tom.

The grains felt ticklish to the touch. Hermione stared at them in awe. If she rubbed them between her fingers they almost turned green. They reminded her of Sherwood Alley.

"Now, pay attention. You toss the powder into the fireplace and wait until the flames turn green. That's when it's safe to step inside. Once you've done that, you must state your destination loud and clear. I will go first and show you. Follow my instructions exactly."

Crawfoot grabbed a handful of powder, tossed it into the flames and to her delight, the fire did in fact turn green. She smiled, in spite of her discomfort. Tom watched the flames with equal wonder. Even he couldn't turn his nose up at the emerald flames.

The wizard stepped inside confidently, not even flinching when the fire licked his elbow.

"The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic!" he thundered with impeccable eloquence.

And he was _gone._ Just like that. The flames had swallowed him up and there was no one in the fireplace anymore.

Tom and Hermione gaped at the empty spot. They stood for several moments in perfect stillness, expecting the wizard to return for them.

The fire had turned orange again, but there was no one in it.

Hermione looked down at her handful of powder. The shame of the naked had turned into the shame of the coward. She was too afraid to go into the fireplace by herself and let the flames eat her up. What if it hurt? What if this was a broken fireplace? The cabinet had been magical too, yet faulty. What if she was transported to some other realm, where not even Tom could follow her?

"The idiot's left us here," her brother mused. "Doesn't he know we could just run away?"

But he didn't look eager to turn around and go. Colly stood behind them, ever the watchful shadow. Could she ask the house-elf to come with her? He probably didn't like her very much after what he'd witnessed in the bathroom. But would he be so cruel as to deny her?

_You're such a crybaby_, she admonished herself. _Where's your courage?_

Yet she'd always had more sense than courage.

"Well?" Tom demanded in a deceptively blasé tone of voice. "Are you going to go first?"

It was rather ironic; she had asked to go wash first.

"No," she replied evenly. "You do it."

"Why should I?"

_Because you should feel what that baby felt. You should be tossed into the unknown._

"Because you're my brother. Brothers protect their sisters." The words were bitter in her mouth, but she had managed to make them sound sweet.

Tom's returning smile was half a grimace.

"Tell you what; we survived water together. Let's try fire."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. There was a catch here. At the last moment, he was going to step back and let her burn.

Then again, she could do the same to him.

The silvery powder was sifting through her fingers. She hitched one leg up on the fire grate. Tom stood beside her.

_Who will burn?_

They both tossed the powder in, and the flames roared and swirled and turned that enviable green they had admired before. It really took one's breath away. She paused a moment, to absorb the image.

It was Tom who pushed her forward violently, but she had been ready for that. She grabbed onto him, one hand on his jacket, the other in his hair, and dragged him into the flames.

"The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic!" she screamed victoriously.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hello! Back from the dead, that's me. This was a shorter chapter, I will admit, and I've already written a good portion of the next, but I decided to stop here because the bathroom incident should have its own entry. It will be come up again later, especially when they are older. There will be parallels, people. _Ahem_.**

**I know I am really infuriating with my snail-pace, sorry! Next time we should see our two favorite siblings at the Ministry and then back with Mum and Dad to get ready for Hogwarts in the fall! So we are almost there! I am taking my sweet time, I know, but it's really important for them to have this idiosyncratic universe outside of Hogwarts. Something that belongs to them and them alone.**

**But enough about that, why are you all so wonderful?! Honestly, I am floored every time I read your reviews. You are a really dedicated fandom, let me tell you that. I love that we all thirst so much for this dark, delicious pairing.**

**Speaking of which, the lovely mangakan actually made a bit of fanart for the story! Can you believe it? Cuz I can't. Go to** **greys- giovana. deviantart art / Stepbrother- 582404199 to see for yourselves!**

**Before I start thanking everyone left and right, I should also mention I finally joined the civilized world and got me a Tumblr. You can find me at cherriii dot tumblr dot com (that's 3 i's). If you want to be friends there or chat or y'know, whatever else, hit me up!**

**So, without further ado, to my anonymous reviewers: Guest1 (I'm so glad you can relate to Hermione! I don't want her to seem invincible, or OOC. And yep, Tom is starting to build his ideology), Guest2 (*blushes* thank you! And I wish I could churn out these chapters regularly too! I am trying to be faster. Next chapter should not be such a long wait!), Jane (Thanks! I think his subconscious knows he likes her, but he is in denial as to the extent and nature of his liking), Guest3 (thanks, I'm flattered!), Guest4 (yay!), Guest5 (I have, and thank you!), Restricted Section (aww, thank you!), Alice (stooop, I will get such a big head! Yes, they do have a very "war and peace" kind of dynamic, which I love to write. But thank you, you're too kind!), G. Pennifold (oh gosh, can I just say you've summed up the story so well? "a person embodying what he's thus far come to see as weakness who challenges these ideals." Perfect! And thanks so much!), Lace and ribbon (first of all, "sexy smirks and bland seduction" I had to stop and laugh for a full minute! I know exactly what you mean by that, btw. I've read a couple of fics that were lovely, but were so knee-deep in this trope I had to take a breather. Second, I'm incredibly flattered you find Tom believable, psychologically speaking. I have no degrees in psychology, but I am pretty passionate about it :) I think we all might've met a Tom, and it's really such a joy to write him), Guest6 (thanks a lot!),** **Magandang Kapre (*blushing intensified* oooh, thank you, that's such a huge compliment, you're lovely! I am very much looking forward to the Hogwarts chapters myself, they will be pretty fun...well, in good Tomione fashion), inkbottletop (good catch! it was definitely ominous foreshadowing), Guest7 (*throws hearts at you*), Guest8 (here it is!), Guest9 (weeell, now you know), Guest10 (thanks, I thrive on subtleties! and compliments about my subtleties, of course :) ), Guest11 (yep!), Guest12 (thanks a lot!), Guest13 (I'm getting the feeling you're the same person? In which case, A+ for persistence, and it's updated!), Guest14 (yay, converting a non-believer!), Voorpret (I missed it too!), Guest15 (I'm fine, I'm just lazy and disorganized, but updated!), Saddie (I promise next chapter won't be such a long wait), Kiara (bless you! you don't know how much I love hearing Tom-compliments. Tomments, if you will), Guest16 (thanks!), Guest17 (and you are too!), Guest18 (thanks!).**

**See you next time!**


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

The green flames were cold to the touch. The coldness was not unpleasant; not like icy drops of rain sliding down your back or freezing winds rattling your teeth. It was more like the cool glass of milk you drank on an empty stomach in the morning. A sweet, wintry taste that gave you comfort. Tom relished the feeling for a short while, before he was spat out into a spinning void.

But that was only his frail body. The vertigo made him fall on his knees and his palms touched something hard and smooth. He was staring at his own reflection in the polished flagstones. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His lips parted against his will.

He had read Jules Verne. All those antiquated stories about cities and worlds under the earth and seas – he had gobbled them up without discrimination. He had imagined such worlds were reserved for spirits. At least, that is what Father Wolsley told the orphans during catechism. Only the dead, who have passed underneath Saint Peter's arch, may enjoy the delights of heavenly architecture.

Yet, here it was, all around him.

Sherwood Alley had been a shocking, but quaint confirmation. This was sublime.

The ceiling was an endless dome, crowned with vaults and arches that gleamed ebony black and sulphurous green. Golden inlays, which twinkled like stars, were hidden in the chinks and fissures of the stone. They looked like numbers, or letters, or symbols. He could not tell because they changed constantly. Below these stars, thick marble colonnades supported the edifice, standing up like the mighty tendrils of a gargantuan god. The walls were no walls at all, merely gilded fireplaces. Wizards and witches strutted out of them and walked with confidence into the bowels of the Atrium, paying no mind to this holy monument.

For several rapturous moments, Tom simply stared. But the more he did, the more painfully ignominious he felt in the face of such grandeur. How could anyone ever be king of these spoils? What would one have to do to possess such a wonder? His lips trembled, undecided. He felt he should smile, but he almost wanted to cry. He had never cried in public since – since that extraordinary occasion when Mrs. Cole had told him his mother had died giving birth to him and no other relative would ever collect him from the orphanage. He had been four, an understandable age. Everyone cried a bit at four. And now?

Now, Tom chose to smile, contemplating the glories before him. Yes, he was small and unimportant, at the moment. But he was a special child; he was magical and brilliant. And that's what mattered in the wizardly world, didn't it? The 'Muggle' world was infinitely more difficult; there, you needed money and connections. Mummy and Daddy had to be _someone_ and a family name counted more than all your wits. But here, all you needed was a willingness to learn. And who knew what the future might reserve? He was here for a hearing today, but maybe next time he would stand in this Atrium as a rightful employee. He would start low, and work his way up to the highest position in the place. He'd be patient. And that patience would be rewarded, one day. The Ministry had sounded stupid, coming from Crawfoot. But Tom was certain now that, whoever was king of this palace - whoever ruled over Crawfoot and other such insects - could not be any less brilliant than him. Anything was possible. He smiled a wide, joyous smile.

When he chanced to lower his gaze, he saw Hermione gawking at the ceiling in a similar fashion. But she was not enraptured; not like him, in any case. Her hand was on her cheek. He could see the fingers sinking in the skin, like she was trying to gouge her own eyes out. She looked positively horrified. His lip curled in disgust. Leave it to her to sully this happy moment.

Yet, when their eyes met, he was struck by the sudden precise intuition he read there.

She was scared, but she did not fear the giant colonnades or the glimmering symbols. Rather, she feared their beauty, because they were so _very_ beautiful. He was too young to comprehend it then, but a more arcane part of his mind suspected that this was the way of beauty. It was supposed to terrify you in some way. He did not know why it was supposed to…but it _was_.

He tried to feel that fear. Yet all he felt was joy.

He would have been troubled by it, but Crawfoot interrupted their silent dialogue and put an end to his thoughts.

"Well, that took you long enough! I was beginning to fear you had gone the wrong way. And Merlin knows, you children have had enough larking about. Come along, I'm afraid we are running late," the wizard croaked anxiously, ushering them towards a giant pool at the far end of the Atrium.

The water shimmered and danced as they approached, creating a silver halo around the golden figures which rose from the blue depths and stood together like pieces on a chessboard. Jets of water spouted from their mouths and ears. They looked human, yet on closer inspection, not all of them belonged to the same species.

"Is that – is that a centaur?" Hermione asked uncertainly, raising her finger at one of the statues which bore the torso of a man but the hind legs of a horse.

She did not wait for Crawfoot to answer. "Are centaurs _real_?"

"Why, yes, they are," the wizard replied impatiently. "And before you ask, the small creature with pointed ears is a goblin. Come, we don't have time to gawk at the Fountain of Magical Brethren."

_Centaurs and goblins_, Tom noted with delight. He wanted to store every little detail about this world, everything the _other_ world had hidden from him. He could not say he was wild about humans with horse legs or tiny gnome-looking creatures, but their existence proved that all sorts of magical beings could exist outside the laws of physics and biology.

Of course, there _was_ a creature in that pool that he'd already seen.

"Magical _Brethren_?" Tom echoed, sceptical. "But that one over there looks just like Colly. And the house-elf isn't your brother or sister. Is it, Sir?"

He pointed at the smallest statue of the group, which was the perfect likeness of Colly - just as wrinkled and just as ugly. The golden sheen gave it a certain prestige, but there was no mistaking the crooked built. Crawfoot went an unattractive shade of red and grabbed Tom lightly by the collar. "Come along, please."

Hermione hurried after them, but when she passed him by, she whispered without purpose, "I saw coins at the bottom of the pool."

Tom wondered why she would tell him that. He imagined sinking his elbow into the fountain and snatching the coins, but then he would get his clothes wet. An unpleasant memory of wet skin and spittle made him shiver and turn his head away. He would not think about _that_. Not here.

* * *

He should have held onto the ropes. Per custom, he had ignored Crawfoot's advice, thinking he knew better. Yet, when the lift stopped at Level 2, he careened ungracefully into the doors and his face was smashed by the wrought golden grilles. He could hear his sister tittering behind him. He muttered a curse under his breath and straightened himself up. He was not happy to find Crawfoot was fussing about him in that unctuous manner of his.

"Oh, dear. Your lip has split, but thank goodness it's nothing more. I did warn you, my boy. These things go fast."

Tom threw him a dark look. _You could have warned me better_. The lift had whirred innocently, at first, only then to bolt up with such dizzying speed that he could not even remotely grab the gold rope.

He hoped he did not look too flustered or discomposed. He would make a terrible first-impression to anyone walking these halls.

_Magical lifts are almost as fast as the Knight Bus_, he noted, storing another little fact for later.

Hermione was still infuriatingly amused. He would have liked to press her face into the grilles so she could see what it's like, but he was ushered into the corridor and had to bite his tongue.

His attention was quickly seized by the wizards and witches walking down the hall. They were all dressed more soberly than the men and women he had seen in Sherwood Alley, but you could not mistake them for average people. None of them could masquerade as the Grangers' kindly neighbours. Their robes varied from black to deep crimson, but they all bespoke of rank and elegance.

Well, not _all_. Some robes were a little shabbier than others. Some did not sport an ermine lining or silver clasps. Others came short at the ankles and were buttoned plainly. His eyes noticed these things involuntarily. You had to, when you were as poor as a church mouse. He might have been better off now with the Grangers, but these instincts did not vanish over time.

Nevertheless, they were impressive to watch. These individuals were all a cut above Muggles. Perhaps the robes were a sign of excellence. The more proficient you were at your job, the more prestige you lent your clothes. But…there was a problem with that too. Crawfoot had donned a very smart set of robes for the hearing and Tom could hardly believe he was competent enough to deserve such fine wear.

He was distracted from these thoughts by Hermione's little cry of wonder. She had traipsed to the small windows that lined the long corridor and was staring out with an idiotic expression on her face.

"But there's nothing there outside!"

Crawfoot was getting very impatient with their constant interruptions, Tom could see. He watched with glee as the wizard heaved a great sigh and gently yanked his sister from the windows.

"Yes, my dear, it's a clever spell. We are still underground, as I mentioned in the lift. But that does not mean we can't be civilized. So, we make do with artificial sunshine."

_Enchanted windows that make you think you're above ground_, Tom noted duly. He was going to learn how to do that, someday. But he wouldn't ask Crawfoot about it. They were going to school soon, as the wizard had cryptically mentioned last night. And it was not an ordinary school where you just did sums and read endless passages from _Tom Brown's School Days_. It was a place like this, he assumed. A place where gifted children could perform magic. He could hardly wait anymore. His feet walked faster, if only to make the moment come sooner.

"Now, normally, you would be confined to Courtroom Ten for Underage Magic and Endangering of Muggles, but since this is a small matter, and you are so very young, the hearing shall be held in Courtroom Two," Crawfoot told them, looking rather put off.

"Courtroom Two?" Hermione asked politely.

"It's just around the corner from our offices."

"That's a good thing, Sir? That we're going to Courtroom Two?" she asked, hoping for some assuring words.

"Of course, of course. In any case, the Blacks have _insisted_," he drawled with something like distaste. But he was back to a cheerier self when they reached a pair of dark mahogany doors.

"Now, remember what we've discussed. The Council of Magical Law will be looking for chinks in your story. Of course, you are good children who always tell the truth. So simply tell them what you told me and answer each question politely. The whole thing should be over in no time. All right, in you go."

* * *

The courtroom was smaller than he had expected. Given the size of the Ministry, he had assumed they would be ushered into a giant amphitheatre with tall, marble pews and high, florid ceiling, but instead, they walked into a cosy diamond-shaped room that was no larger than the Grangers' dining room. There were sconces on the wall, but not all their torches were lit, and the ones that were, gave off an unnatural blue light which cast a sad aura over the wooden benches and the rickety lecterns. Grave-looking wizards presided above them, huffing over piles of papers that flowed rather curiously before them. It took Tom a moment to realize those papers were _flying_.

He watched as the wizards flicked their wands and the parchments flew between them in perfect coordination. It did not look like a hard spell to master, since the wizards did not seem to even pay attention to their wand movements. Perhaps performing magic became so ingrained in your muscles that you did it without thinking. What a wonderful thought.

Two upholstered chairs had been drawn up under the lecterns. They were the best looking feature in the small courtroom and he was tickled pink to think that he and his sister would be given this kind of courtesy. Perhaps they had already impressed the Council. After all, how many children came through these doors?

However, Crawfoot nudged them towards the plain wooden benches. The two chairs were soon occupied by a formidable looking pair.

Tom had thought he'd seen beautiful robes before, but nothing could compare to the regal, floor-length garments that were draped around the wizard and the witch's shoulders. The man was resting his hand on a silver-tipped cane, and Tom could see that his every finger was jeweled. The stones were black as onyx. The woman was not to be outdone. The brocade of her robes was tinseled with silver and gold and her ears were heavy with long pearl earrings.

The sumptuous garb would have looked ridiculous on another pair. Yet, the two felt so comfortable, so secure in their position, that their apparel was nothing if not an effortless addition to their magnificence. Their countenance too was forbidding; lips thinned, eyes narrowed. They had not come here to trifle.

"May we proceed now that the _children_ are here? I do not have all day," the man demanded icily, his back turned to them. His wife - for who else could she be? - concurred with a toss of her head.

Hermione leaned forward and whispered something into Crawfoot's ear, but he shushed her warily.

"Best keep quiet in front of Mr. and Mrs. Black."

So that is who they were. He remembered now. The Vanishing Cabinet had belonged to them. He did not realize the wizards at the lecterns had started talking.

"...in view of the disturbance caused by the magical artifact, we expect that the owners shall take at least partial responsibility for..."

But they were soon interrupted.

"My _husband_ has already paid the stipend due this _honourable_ Council," Mrs. Black spoke with thunderous authority. "And he has made sure the Cabinet was destroyed, along with its pair, so as not to inconvenience anyone ever again. Will that do?"

_Inconvenience_? Tom thought with slight pique. _It was more than an inconvenience._

"By whose authority did you have the artifact destroyed, Mrs. Black?"

"By mine," Mr. Black spoke in a clipped voice. He seemed thoroughly displeased that he was required to speak.

"That was quite against the rules, Sir. Evidence should have been collected. Were you not informed -?" the Council inquired.

"Yes, yes, he was," his wife spoke for him again. "But we are both _quite _familiar with Ministry law. As a matter of fact, our forefathers contributed to its very existence. Henceforth, we took matters in our hands and saved the Department invaluable time and resources. My great-grandfather did not invest _half_ his fortune in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for you to investigate pointless matters."

"You shall leave it to us to decide whether this matter is pointless, Mrs. Black," one of the Councilmen spoke, but Tom could sense the catch in his voice.

He did not understand what was going on. The Blacks were being quite rude, if not downright unhelpful to the Council, but no one was willing to curtail their behaviour. In fact, they seemed to be the ones in charge.

He chanced a glance at his sister. She was chewing on her lip savagely, fingers clasped tightly in her lap. She seemed more confused than upset. But it was Crawfoot's expression that drew his attention. His brows were knitted together in an unfamiliar way. His pudgy cheeks quivered. He realized he'd never seen the man angry.

He was nonplussed. He had expected Crawfoot to ingratiate himself with these self-important Blacks.

"In any case," Mrs. Black was saying, with a patronizing sniff, "we found the missing babe. My husband made it his personal business to retrieve her. She is safe with her mother, and if you need proof of that, you might call in the Muggle woman for questioning. Of course, that would impeach upon the Statute of Secrecy, but you gentlemen seem bent on discovering the _truth_."

Tom felt a sharp nudge from Hermione's elbow. Her eyes were wide with alarm. She leaned towards him and whispered feverishly, "It was a boy. The baby was a boy. I'm sure of it."

Yes, Tom recollected. The woman had called him 'Johnnie'. He nodded his head tersely.

Emboldened by his agreement, and before Crawfoot could stop her, Hermione had cleared her throat. "Excuse me. Excuse me, please?"

One of the Councilmen raised his spectacles to glance at her. "Young lady?"

"I'm sorry to speak out of turn, Sir, but the baby was a boy."

Tom's heart beat loudly in his ears. He could not believe she had spoken up. He expected something terrible to occur, and sure enough, it did.

Mrs. Black turned towards them stiffly, her face as white as a corpse. Only her eyes burned bright like coals.

"How dare you question my word, _girl_? I am Violetta Black, I am not in the habit of making idle remarks. You had best hold your tongue before your superiors. You are Muggleborn, are you not?"

Hermione opened her mouth in shock, but no words came out. For a few moments, she could not even move, until Crawfoot touched her shoulder gently.

"My dear..."

She crumpled instantly back into her seat, cheeks flushed with shame.

Tom looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. He gripped the edge of the bench in an effort to suppress his rage. He could hardly see the lecterns or the men behind them. His vision narrowed on the vile bitch before him, until there was no one else. _Violetta._ He despised the name. He wanted her dead.

_Dead._

He was overwhelmed by the violence of his reaction. _I want her to die right now._

Violetta Black did not so much as grant him a cursory glance. She turned her back to them as if nothing had happened.

Tom was about to stand up and repeat Hermione's words, when his sister's hand caught his sleeve.

"_Don't_," she whispered pleadingly. "You'll make it worse."

"Don't be such a coward," he retorted, yanking his arm away. But it was Crawfoot who rose unceremoniously and put a stop to his gesture. He cleared his throat and asked the Council if the children might give their testimony now.

"They have waited long enough," he added with a pointed look in Mr. Black's direction. The man merely tapped his cane against the floor lackadaisically. It was his wife who had to intervene once more.

"Let them be quick then," she commanded, waving her lacquered nails.

Tom thought this might be their chance to voice their oppositions, but it became clear, soon enough, that it wasn't the case. Firstly, his input was found unnecessary. Crawfoot bade Hermione go over the string of events alone, and she recited them like a well-rehearsed poem. He was only asked to say "yes" or "no", depending on his sister's statements.

But surely, the issue of the baby could not be avoided.

Hermione's voice faltered when she reached that point in the story, but Crawfoot nodded for her to go on. "When we heard footsteps approaching, I...I panicked and put the baby inside the Cabinet. I only meant to protect him, you see -"

"_Him_? It seems we have two conflicting accounts," one of the Councilmen remarked, looking down at his notes.

"The baby was most certainly a girl," Violetta Black declared impatiently. "We have gone over this. My husband made sure to reunite mother with child. The Council is invited to interview everyone in the village, if needed."

"Yes, well, we shall certainly make inquiries -"

"_His_ name was Johnnie," Tom spoke up, unable to contain his temper anymore. He had cared little for the babe when he had pushed him inside the Cabinet, but he felt a deep sense of injustice now, as if his own name were being dragged through the mud.

Mrs. Black clenched her fingers spasmodically around the necklace at her throat. "Cygnus, I will not sit in this room and be insulted in such a shameful manner. My forefathers are turning in their graves."

"No one meant to insult you, Mrs. Black. We are simply trying to ascertain the facts," one of the Councilmen intervened in a conciliatory fashion.

"The facts have been laid before you already. My wife is distressed," Cygnus Black finally spoke, rising from his seat. His impositions had been so rare and curt, that his words now rang in the small courtroom with considerable force. "We have gone beyond duty in this matter. The Black name will not bear any more pernicious assaults. And these children ought to be sent home. They obviously know nothing useful and can reveal nothing new."

* * *

Tom gnawed at the piece of chocolate absentmindedly. Crawfoot had said it would help settle their stomachs. But every single time he took a bite, he saw the courtroom doors closing abruptly behind them. In the end, it had not mattered. Their testimony had been for naught.

_They obviously know nothing useful..._

Violetta and Cygnus Black had gotten what they wanted, whatever that was. The Council had merely advised the children never to practice wandless magic again outside of school. No one mentioned the bullies or the burned schoolbag. Seeing as it was their first offense, and they came from a Muggle family, the children would only get...

"A slap on the wrist," Crawfoot had informed them with faux-cheer. "But you should not take it too lightly. Your misdemeanor is now on record, and, should you fall short again, they will remember your names."

_They don't care about names_, _unless it's Black_, Tom thought with a sneer. But he could not bring himself to scowl. He was too disappointed. His chest felt hollowed out and all he desired was to sleep. He had not rested well the night before, or the night before that...

Strangely, he wanted to go home, to Cora and Henry. He felt stupid for wishing that. A stupid and weak little boy. One should not want to leave the Ministry Of Magic.

Yet, looking at the offices arrayed before him, he could hardly see the glory of the Atrium. They looked like ordinary cubbyholes, except for the flying papers and the bright banners. Someone would occasionally make their voice louder by touching the tip of their wand to their throat. But nothing more spectacular than that occurred. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was thoroughly underwhelming.

Crawfoot had left them at his desk, claiming he needed to sort some business before walking them out. So now here they sat despondently, chin in their hands, nibbling at their tasteless pieces of chocolate.

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling, where a feather floated several inches above their heads.

"Angus, what'd you do with my quill?" someone hollered in distress. The feather flew in the direction of the voice.

"How do you think she did it?" she asked no in particular.

"What do you mean?"

Hermione met his eyes. "The mother can't have put up with a baby _girl_. How did Mrs. Black convince her? I - I doubt she bribed her with money. You don't take money over your own child."

Tom chewed on his lip. The feather was now out of sight. The answer was easy. "Magic. It was magic."

"_What_ kind of magic would make you forget your child?" she asked in a tremulous voice.

A shiver ran down his spine. "The kind of magic we're going to learn at school."

"Do you think Johnnie is still alive?"

"Yes," he answered mechanically.

"You can't know." It sounded more like y_ou killed him._

"Then why did you bloody ask?" he snapped, fed up with the whole ordeal. He wanted to sleep, sleep and not dream, not dream of anything...

But she didn't pick up a fight. Instead, she split the rest of the chocolate in half and threw it in the dustbin. "Violetta sounds like a _cow's_ name."

Tom was startled by the vehemence of her tone. But perhaps nothing about her startled him anymore. His sister was an ugly little beast when she wanted to. This morning alone was proof...

"Cygnus sounds like a great big twat," he humored her.

"Pretentious bastards," Hermione added for good measure.

"Bastards," Tom repeated with pleasure. "Powerful bastards."

His sister shook her head. "I don't ever want to be like them. If magic turns you into _that_..."

Tom reflected upon her words. He found their logic faulty. Magic elevated you. It was your character that condemned you. And yet.

And yet, the Blacks were elevated, beyond all means.

He thought back to his naive little fantasy; that one day, he might rise through the ranks, work hard, be respected and earn the highest position in the Ministry.

No, just like in the Muggle world, it seemed you needed a name and money for that too.

The disappointment rankled deep. The Grangers' name was useless, after all.

_But what about Riddle?_

It was then that he remembered Crawfoot's little anecdote from the night before.

_Bob Ogden...head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad...told me about a particular case he handled some years ago...but I recall the name...yes, it was Riddle._

Tom looked up sharply. Crawfoot presumably worked under Bob Ogden, which meant his desk must be around here somewhere.

He got up and stuffed the chocolate in his pocket.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked, watching him with interest.

He disliked her curiosity. He disliked the way she was soft now, like a cat, even though he had seen her teeth above his face and her hand down his...

He shook her off. "None of your business. Wait here."

* * *

It was ridiculously easy, after all. He asked the man called Angus whether he might speak to Bob Ogden.

"Mr. Crawfoot sent me to find him," Tom lied easily.

"Ah, Chief is not here currently. He's out with Brockhurst and Weasley, but I'll let him know about Crawfoot."

"Might I leave a note on his desk from Mr. Crawfoot? He said I should put it directly in his hand," Tom said in that dulcet tone of voice which always guaranteed he would be believed.

Angus scratched his chin pensively. "You're one of the lads with that Cabinet business?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Give it to me, then. The note."

"No, Sir. Mr. Crawfoot said it's a matter of privacy. Involving the Blacks."

The words had the warranted effect. The illustrious name could be put to good use, after all.

"Ah. That's his desk over there," Angus nodded towards the far-corner, his head already bent over his papers, as if he wanted nothing more than to return to work.

Tom excused himself politely and forced himself to _walk_, not run, to Ogden's desk.

He did not know what he was searching for; maybe a dossier, or a document...some piece of paper about that case that happened years ago.

He knew he could not loiter very long, so he opened one or two drawers haphazardly and peeked inside. There were so many records and reports that his eyes flitted over them dizzily without registering more than signatures and stamps.

He did not find anything marked 'Riddle'. But he found something better. On a small envelope marked for Bob Ogden, someone had written his home address.

Tom copied the name and number on the chocolate wrapping. He placed it back inside his pocket and stepped away from the desk, victorious.

It was a small triumph, all things considered, but on a day such as this, it was worth more than all the Blacks' gold.

* * *

They did not return to the Atrium. Crawfoot thrust them inside a lift packed with wizards and witches. This time, Tom held onto the gold rope. He swung back and forth aimlessly as the elevator went down at rattling speed. His eyes looked, but he saw nothing. There was nothing to see. No symbols, no columns, no vaults. Just a dizzying row of floors that passed too quickly for inspection.

He could feel stares on his back. He knew they were all watching him, because he stuck out like a sore thumb in his Muggle clothes. But so did Hermione. She stood with her back against the wall and hid her face in her hair. He had learned that was not a sign of shyness on her part. More likely, she was sore. Sore about the Ministry, sore about the Blacks, sore about 'Johnnie'.

Tom was sore too. But he was comforted by the secret knowledge in his pocket. The chocolate wrapping might hold the answer he wanted. Or...or it might avail to nothing. But it was a start. He would visit Bob Ogden when he had learned enough magic. He would pry the truth from that man. The Grangers were not his natural parents. He did not have to be Muggleborn. He could be...he could be...

Slowly, the lift emptied until there was no one else. When Crawfoot finally ushered them out, they were standing in a dank underground station. He saw that they had slipped out of an old phone box that was no longer in use.

And there, at the edge of the platform, stood Cora and Henry.

"Children!"

Cora went down on her knees and opened her arms wide. There were tears in her eyes. "Oh, my darlings!"

Henry beckoned towards them with a misty expression on his dull face. "My sweet girl, my brave boy!"

Hermione ran to them at once. And Tom...Tom did too. He found his feet moving of their own accord.

This couple was not formidable. They did not wear ermine-lined robes and their fingers were not covered in onyx stones. They did not command a whole Council with their presence. Nor did they look upon him with contempt.

No, they seemed happy to see him. They might have even loved him. Poor, poor Muggles, they knew no better.

But he wrapped his arms around Cora's neck and inhaled the domestic fragrance he was so accustomed to.

The family huddled together as one.

* * *

**A/N:**

**So that was fun, hopefully? ****A long-ish chapter to make up for the previously shorter one. I hope you enjoyed it! It set up some interesting beliefs/impressions in young little Tom, hence why this chapter was 100% from his point of view. Next up, leaving for Hogwarts!**

**I want to thank the lovely people on tumblr for making stuff for the fic and messaging me and just being really wonderful in general. And I'd like to single out "bloomsburry-dhazellouise" for creating a very pretty book cover and banner for the story! (you should check it out on her blog)**

**As always, your reviews fuel my work and push me to better myself, so a million times, thank you.**

**Lots of anonymous reviewers to thank: Guest1 (thanks!), Guest2 (I'm glad you liked the bathroom scene, although it was uncomfortable. It will definitely have repercussions on them long into their adolescence and it will manifest both physically and mentally, you'll see. And yes, that's the perverse beauty of their connection; she has to be more like him to beat him), Voorpret (I'm glad you enjoy the chapters! Well, Hogwarts is literally one chapter away and from there-on there will be some time jumps (I won't reveal when), so it's bound to get more exciting, I hope. I haven't planned anything, but I am relatively certain the story will be over 30 chapters), Happy Fan (thanks! and funny you should mention that, because their intimate affairs are going to be quite a prickly subject at Hogwarts, especially stuff that only the two of them would understand), Beth (thanks, I'm glad it's not!), Guest3 (Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed his reaction! I will say, Tom will always find Hermione the most compelling creature, be it mare or female, in his life. I don't think he would show romantic interest elsewhere, but he _would_ be interested in someone for his own gains), Reader (I love that movie, thanks, that's a neat little compliment!), more please (ah, don't worry, I think they meant it as a compliment, and thanks a lot, I quite enjoyed writing that line myself!), Pulpo701 (thanks, I'm glad everything's to your taste so far!), Guest4 (thanks!), Guest5 (I'm very flattered to be named in the same sentence with Ultima Ratio, thanks a lot!), Guest6 (bless you!), Guest7 (I'm happy someone recommended this to you, and I'd say we're already slightly in that portion of the story, although it's quite a twisted, incipient sense of romance, for now), Guest8 (haha, you are right of course, but I think both of them will end up the actions they commit against each other), Guest9 (oh, gosh, thank you! I'm glad you appreciate the tone of the fic and the way I've portrayed Tom. I will say, his maturity also comes from his time on the streets. I think this was mentioned in previous chapters but since he moved in with the Grangers, Tom has taken the habit of walking around the neighbourhood, exploring the less salubrious parts of the city. When he was confined to the orphanage he had fewer occasions to escape, but he is definitely the kind of kid who would dirty his hands, if given the occasion. He's no Draco Malfoy. After all, Harry's resemblance to Tom is a very real thing. Also, the orphanage would acquaint him with some forms of behavioral deviance), TheMargo (Not to worry, this story will still get updated while I live :) It's just that sometimes school and life get in the way. I'm glad you liked the darker aspects of last chapter, because it's only going to get "worse" from here-on. As for Hermione's Gryffindor status, that shall be revealed pretty soon), Guest10 (haha, you're not wrong, but I took a poetic licence :), Mariel (no, thank you!), TGTQ (I'm glad we have similar tastes!), Guest11 (haha, I'm glad you're enjoying the darker shades of their relationship, because there's more of that coming. Not even Hogwarts can stand in the way), Guest12 (I will go with Luna Lovegood's response "you're just as sane as I am" :) Thanks, I'm so glad you like them in their fucked-up glory), Guest13 (stop *blushes*), Guest14 (thanks so much!), Guest15 (ah, thank you!).**

**Let me know what you thought of this chapter &amp; see you next time!**


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

Hermione could hear the screams through the telephone. Anyone walking into the room might have thought her parents were arguing quite savagely with the person on the other line, but the truth was that wizards and witches simply had no notion of how to use a telephone. In fact, they had no interest in any Muggle technological advancements. They were so befuddled by the contraption that they kept screaming every other word into Cora and Henry's unsuspecting ears.

"Could you please lower your voice? I don't imagine this information requires that much shouting –"

"I AM QUITE SORRY, MADAM, BUT WE ARE NOT ACCUSTOMED TO THESE OBTRUSIVE MACHINES! WE PREFER OWLS, WHICH YOU WILL FIND, ARE MUCH MORE COMFORTABLE AND DISCREET!"

At first, these exchanges were tinged with humour. Hermione caught Tom snickering more than once, and she had to stifle her own laughter a few times. But gradually, her poor parents lost their patience and started screaming back at the Ministry employees.

Crawfoot had given the Grangers the number for the Ministry's Muggle Relations Department and they had been very conscientious callers ever since they discovered what their children _were_.

All throughout summer, they consulted with various Ministry employees on subjects that ranged from magical schooling to capital punishment and its equivalent in the wizarding world. They were extremely anxious to know the minutia of this elaborate system which had existed and thrived right under their noses.

Undoubtedly, the numerous phone calls were also their way of silently protesting against their children's secrecy.

The most saddening revelation that Hermione experienced when she returned home was the fact that her mother and father could no longer act as her confidantes. Of course, ever since Tom had become her de facto sibling, honesty had been tantamount to compromise. She had lied to them about Tom many times, but that was just her stepbrother. She had always felt she could unburden her heart to her mum and dad about things that really _mattered_.

No longer.

Despite their many inquiries, Hermione knew better than to tell Henry and Cora about the Cabinet, about Johnny, about the bath tub, about the Blacks. These were dark things, terrible things, _disgusting_ things, things that held no rhyme or reason. They would only sicken and repulse an unprepared audience. The story she told her mum and dad was a story of omission. A charming, if slightly maudlin tale of two children lost in a magical world that resembled a quaint bazaar.

She sensed that they did not believe her, not entirely. Nor did they believe Tom's blithe corroboration of events. But they were careful not to prod any further into their fatuous tale. What the Grangers feared more than anything else was loss of unity, loss of stability.

Hermione wished she could dispel their doubts on that account, but they had suffered a terrible shock when she and Tom had run away. From now on, they would always wonder what they'd done wrong. They would always check the front door twice, and bolt the windows shut. They would creep up in the middle of the night to watch their children sleep.

Magic had erected a wall between her and her parents. It was barely tangible, like a film of ice over a frozen pond, but it was there. And the only other person on her side of the wall, her new and terrifying confidante was Tom. There was no one else in the world she could talk to about baby Johnny. No one else she could ask, as they walked home on the last days of school, "Where do you think he is now?"

Tom hated these questions, and she hated asking them, but the other side of the wall meant solidarity, no matter how artificial.

In an ironic turn of events she could have never predicted, her family had become _more_, not less normal; the children lived in their separate world, the parents lived in theirs. Wasn't that how it was supposed to be?

* * *

"Have either of you done any magic today?" was Henry's jolly question every time he and Cora returned home from the dentist's. It was meant to trivialize the frightening idea of the supernatural and poke fun at its presence in their household. But the worry lines around their eyes never quite disappeared and their efforts to sound cheerful were all the more wooden and labored.

The children invariably answered no, whether they had done any magic or not. It was torture to sit in a stuffy office all day, looking at people's teeth, all the while worrying your children may have accidentally set the house on fire.

In that respect, Henry and Cora were almost looking forward to the compulsory magical schooling which - the Ministry had guaranteed - would teach their offspring how to master their 'abilities'. The Grangers had formed some idea of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Although they had asked to be sent pamphlets and brochures, the Ministry of Magic had been rather stingy. All they could ascertain was that it was a 'prestigious school' of 'elite professors', which was guided by a strict curriculum that was accredited by a special Committee of some sort. Henry thought it all sounded quite 'wonky', but they took some comfort in the fact that the whole venture was only supposed to last seven years. When Tom and Hermione left magical school, they would be ripe for Oxford.

But what to do about their missing education? The Grangers were determined not to be stumped. Tom might enrol in a good preparatory school and Hermione might follow a smart ladies' seminar. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that they might join normal society after their eccentric tutoring. Perhaps Hermione would marry directly and never go to university, but she would lead a good life. Their children were so gifted, after all. They would enjoy the best of both worlds.

And yet, they were hardly ready when the Hogwarts acceptance letters arrived in early August. A barn owl delivered two neat white squares on their doorstep.

Cora was almost loath to bring them inside the house, but she did, with a smile on her face.

"Hermione! Tom! There's something here for you!"

The festivities began that evening. All the children could talk about was the letters. Even Tom, to Cora's surprise, was out of bounds. He was usually too polite and reserved to swing his arms about excitedly. But both he and his sister had forgotten how to behave.

"It says here that Headmaster Armando Dippet is part of an International Confederacy of Wizards!"

"He's Chief Warlock too! What do you think that means?"

"And Albus Dumbledore – what a funny name – he's Deputy Headmaster, look this is his signature!"

"Oh, it says here we can buy gloves made out of dragon hide!"

"And a pointy hat for day wear? That sounds rather ridiculous, don't you think?"

"But we've got all these books! There must be so many more! What do you think Transfiguration stands for?"

"We're getting a cauldron!"

"And a telescope! Do you think they mean a Muggle telescope or a magical one?"

"Of course we're supposed to get a magical one, don't be daft!"

"What about pets? It says here you can bring a toad. _Yuck_. That would suit you fine!"

"I'd much rather get an owl. What's the point of a slimy toad anyway?"

"Look! First Years are not allowed their own broomstick. What do you think that means?"

"Well, they won't have us sweep the floors, I imagine!"

"I hope they don't expect us to fly them, like in children's books!"

"It's got to be a lot more intelligent than that!"

"How many robes are you getting? I don't think three's enough!"

"Six ought to do it!"

They went on in this fashion for a long time, occasionally picking up a fight over who got more pairs of dragon-hide gloves, but generally agreeing that Hogwarts sounded 'spectacular'. It was the most friendly the Grangers had ever seen their children.

They should have been happy, even relieved. But they sat together awake at night and wondered, in hushed tones, whether it hadn't all been a mistake, from the very beginning. They loved Tom dearly. He was a sweet, good child, the little boy they'd always wanted. But hadn't _he_ brought this magic into the house? If Hermione was magical, shouldn't she have inherited this 'gift' from her parents? And if Cora and Henry were as ordinary as could be, didn't that mean their little girl had caught this _microbe_ from her brother?

Of course, they never did more than whisper. It wasn't Tom's fault he was a special child. They resolved to love him more for it.

But they blamed themselves for the curse of magic.

* * *

Diagon Alley was not much different than Sherwood Alley, Tom discovered with equal parts pleasure, equal parts disappointment.

He had expected to be swept up into the wonder of it all a second time around, but he'd already been exposed to much more impressive shops and buildings in his previous escapade. Hermione, too, despite her buoyant disposition, was hardly in awe. Nothing could really bowl them over after the Ministry of Magic.

Their parents, however, were simply dumbfounded. Everywhere they looked, they found new reason to unhinge their jaws. The only respite from this menagerie of bizarre and whimsy was Gringotts Bank, a solid institution they could finally recognize as civilized. But even here, everything was awry. Cora shouted bloody murder at the sight of the Goblins in charge of the Bank. Hermione and Tom had received ample warning from Crawfoot that such creatures were no fairy tale. But it was another affair for their parents.

"Why would they let those creatures in charge of people's savings?"

"I suppose they're very good at it," Hermione offered patiently.

"It's quite farfetched!"

Tom amused himself wondering how his mother might react to a house elf.

"And how should we make sense of these Galleons and Sickles?" Henry demanded, counting the golden coins with chagrin. His father had nearly choked when one of the Goblins had explained that wizards owned vaults stocked with gold. It seemed almost perverse that in Britain's dwindling economy this should be an everyday occurrence in the magical world.

The shopping for school supplies went no better. To the amusement of witches and wizards around them, Hermione and Tom were forced to leave their parents behind from time to time in order to purchase everything they needed.

"We'll be waiting for you at this… lovely ice cream parlour while you do your shopping," Cora had proposed out of despair. But their choice of venue turned out to be less than lovely.

"_Why_ would anyone want to eat _lizard_-flavored ice-cream?! It's enough to turn one's stomach. I'm quite sure I contracted a bug," Henry bemoaned, looking slightly purple, as they left Florean Fortescue's with half-melted scones.

The saving grace of the outing was finally acquiring their wands at Ollivander's. It had been uppermost on Tom's mind ever since he learned what they could do.

His wand measured thirteen inches and a half, which was an impressive length for a wand. Even the batty man running the shop could confirm that. It also boasted a phoenix feather core. Another rare and precious feature. In contrast, his sister's wand was a measly ten inches and three quarters. Her core was something called dragon heartstring. It sounded positively medieval. Even his wood was superior; yew could not compare to plain vine wood.

All in all, he was moderately satisfied with the outcome of their trip. Even if Henry and Cora looked worse for wear. In fact, his parents' misery made it all the more delightful.

He _really_ hoped he might introduce his mother to a house elf one day.

* * *

Hermione pulled each of the heavy textbooks in her lap and held them close to her chest. They smelled like freshly baked bread. The pages were a creamy yellow, like melting butter on toast. The leather binding was smooth and crisp to the touch, like those delicious tartines her mother made for breakfast. It was a marvellous sensory experience. She felt hungry for books.

She and Tom had purchased all the compulsory editions that the elderly witch at Flourish &amp; Blotts had recommended, but they had also bought two more enticing reads; _Hogwarts, A History_ and _The Goblin Wars, A Gruesome Account._

She was so excited to read them all she could hardly breathe.

Tom stopped by her open door with a superior look on his face. "I'm starting with _Hogwarts, A History_. It's supposed to be quite difficult. You?"

Hermione arched her eyebrows. "The same, of course."

He nodded his head absently and ambled to his room at the other end of the hall. But she did not hear his door click shut as usual. And after a while, she heard the rustle of pages. Tom had settled down to read and he hadn't closed his door.

She opened _Hogwarts, A History _and perused the first lines. Right from the start, she was thrown into stark confusion.

"Godric Gryffindor! That can't be a real name!"

"Rowena Ravenclaw sounds just as bad," the reply came from Tom's room.

Hermione gasped quietly. Were they really going to exchange impressions?

"At least her pet is an eagle," she said, hesitantly. "I'm not very fond of lions. Even if there's a spell to tame them, I don't see the point."

"That's not her pet," he argued. "That's her House Crest. But I agree about the lions."

"What's all this business with Houses anyway? Why must we choose one? Oh, did you reach _Hufflepuff_? It sounds like some new species of hippopotamus."

"More like a hippopotamus wearing a floral dress," was Tom's sardonic reply. She snickered under her breath, and she heard him chuckle too.

She found herself enjoying their little game; it was nice, talking to each other across the corridor. _Hogwarts, A History_ was fascinating, but rather dry. Having a reading companion was turning out to be quite pleasant.

"Salazar Slytherin could talk to snakes," Tom remarked at one point. Hermione's ears pricked up.

"I haven't reached that part yet…oh, here it is. So, I suppose, one of them _did_ have a pet."

"I can talk to snakes," was Tom's more quiet reply.

Hermione chewed on her lip. Yes, how could she forget? "Does that mean you're bound for Slytherin? Because I can't talk to any animal that I know of."

"Slytherin House is by far the best choice. And I seem to be destined for it." His voice dripped with pride.

She rolled her eyes. "I prefer Ravenclaw, but I hope that doesn't mean I have to communicate with eagles."

"Slytherin is still the most accomplished," he insisted with a note of disturbance in his voice. "It's got Ravenclaw's intelligence, but with all the cunning and ambition lacking from that House."

"Not everyone is after cunning and ambition. Some people just want to learn for the sake of learning," she replied tartly. "In fact, that's the only way to do it."

Tom ignored her. "Gryffindor seems to be the worst. At least Hufflepuffs are loyal."

"But they're brave and determined."

"So?" he echoed disdainfully.

"So, ambition and determination are not all that different."

He scoffed in disbelief. "You're a fool if you think they're the same."

"Most of these Houses overlap, you know," she replied coolly. "Take Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. You'd have to be dedicated and hard-working, like a Hufflepuff, to learn as much as a Ravenclaw."

"You're not making much sense."

Hermione huffed. She got up and stalked towards Tom's room, her own copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ in hand to prove him wrong.

But the sight that greeted her when she reached his open door stopped her dead in her tracks.

"You're reading them all at once?" she cried out in anguish.

He was lying down on his stomach, surrounded by several of his books. His chin was resting in his palm and he was leafing through the textbooks undisturbed. _Hogwarts, A History_ was lying on top of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._

Her cheeks flushed an unattractive maroon. She had thought, however briefly, that they were on equal footing, that they were reading companions.

"Not all of them, silly. Just four at a time. Potions, Transfiguration, History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts," he replied nonchalantly, clearly tickled by her dismay.

"Don't tell me you're still on about _Hogwarts, A History_," he added innocently.

Hermione balled her hands into fists and took a step closer. One of her shoes trod on the corner of his _Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_.

"Watch out," he muttered, pushing her leg away.

She stumbled back, her eyes falling on the upside-down text in front of her. She had to crane her neck at a painful angle in order to decipher the words. Her eyes watered from the effort. But she persisted in this futile exercise for another minute or two. Perhaps she was just very angry. But there was no reason to let him get the better of her. She could just make the short walk back to her room and begin reading all her textbooks too. And yet, she remained in the doorway, watching him silently. She did not know why she did it. She supposed she derived a sick sort of pleasure from feeling humiliated. It was like taking a bitter pill, but not swallowing it down completely. She watched him read.

"Don't you have something better to do?" he asked, when it was clear she wasn't leaving. "You'll want to catch up."

Hermione peeled away at the wallpaper around his door frame. She had liked reading together, but he had ruined that, like always.

"I'm not rushing. I'll finish _Hogwarts, A History_ tonight," she replied.

"By then, I'll have read more."

Hermione scratched at his wallpaper more vigorously. Why was it impossible for him to be nice? Why did she still expect him to?

"Maybe. But you're not going to remember much," she said, matter-of-factly.

Tom looked up then, his fingers curling around the leather binding of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._

"I've already learned plenty –"

She folded her arms. "_Maybe_, but you're only reading fast because you want to beat me. And that's stupid. You're not going to remember _anything_."

She could see the way his jaw locked underneath the skin, as if someone had pulled an invisible mechanism behind his ear. There was something innately fascinating about the way a boy's face became distorted.

"I couldn't care less what you think," he said, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pulling the sleeves up.

_Oh, really?_ She was convinced she was right about this. Tom was only doing this to spite her.

She would've liked to return to her room and continue her leisurely reading of _Hogwarts, A History_. But she couldn't do it. She had to prove him wrong.

_Why do you want that so badly?_

She hardly knew. When she was around him, she could not make heads or tails of her behaviour. But if she turned away now, she would lose the match, and that would make her miserable. So she sat down on the floor, leaned her back against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest.

Tom puffed out a derisive little laugh. "Fine. Sit there like a dolt."

He bent his head down to his books and decided to ignore her. Several minutes passed in perfect silence. Tom read, eyes shifting quickly from one book to the next, stopping here and there to run his finger over a particular passage that had captured his attention. Hermione sat and watched.

After a while, no passage captured his attention any longer. He was only running his finger down the page for something to do. The letters had dissolved into a great brown soup. His sister's fixed gaze bore little holes in his cavity. He could feel the gaps growing wider. He forced himself to listen to the voice reading inside his head.

Beads of sweat were pooling on his forehead, making his hair stand up on its roots. One drop fell on his copy of _A History of Magic._ He turned the page with a rapid, angry motion and stretched his neck. His shoulder blades popped with an unpleasant sound. He'd sat in the same position for too long and his limbs were bloodless.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. He broke away from his barricade of books.

Rising precipitately, Tom almost stepped on her as he left the room. She heard him spit out the words like peach pits.

"Stay here and _rot_ for all I care."

The bathroom door slammed against its hinges. Her mum called up from downstairs.

"Everything all right, darlings?"

But Cora did not press the issue when no one answered.

Hermione heard Tom turn the lock, and she heard the gurgling of water. She could see him, in her mind's eye, pushing up the faucet, bringing his lips to the cold stream.

She raised her eyes and surveyed his empty room. She had never taken a proper look at it before. She had made it her business never to step inside it, and it wasn't as if Tom had ever offered. The room revealed nothing too ominous, at first glance.

His old school uniform hung neatly over a chair. His schoolbooks were stacked orderly on his shelves, along with his miniature ships and locomotives, courtesy of Henry. A box of toy soldiers lay at the foot of the desk, gathering dust. The recent Hogwarts shopping was spread out on his quilt, cluttering the bed in an almost deliberate fashion. It was an average boy's room. Tidy, but not too tidy. Personal, but not to an exaggerate degree.

Hermione felt, sitting there, that no one really _lived_ in this room. Tom had crafted a life in here, but it was someone else's life. A stranger's.

She contemplated this rather depressing thought, until her gaze fell upon a familiar blue patch sticking out of a drawer.

She stood up and shuffled closer to take a better look.

Was it a handkerchief? An old tie?

Her lips parted when she realized it was neither.

It was her ribbon. The dirty blue ribbon, the one her mother had washed so many times it had gone faint.

She remembered that day in the park, almost a lifetime ago. She'd worn it like a diadem around her hair. Then Tom had told her to give it to his mate, George. She had never thought she would see it again. But he had got it back. It wasn't hard to imagine how. Those boys were more lackeys than friends.

Still, why would he keep it?

When she heard the bathroom door unlock, she scurried up instinctively, knowing her time was up. She ran back to her room, closing the door behind her.

Her own copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ lay open at the same page. She sat down on her bed, and touched the page gingerly. She wondered if Tom had left the ribbon there by accident. She wondered if there were any other…

_No_.

Why would he take her possessions and keep them as souvenirs? It must have not been her ribbon, after all.

She gripped the spine of her book to her chest. She had some reading to do.

* * *

The noise was deafening. She had never been somewhere so crowded. And there were so many children on the platform she almost took a step back into her mother's skirts.

_You're not a little baby anymore_, she chided herself.

But she was feeling rather anxious. This was a new beginning, a chance to make actual friends and not end up bullied by someone like Elspeth Reginald. First impressions were crucial. Especially since she was Muggleborn. She'd read enough of _A History of Magic_ to understand that there was a strong hierarchy in the wizarding world and it didn't favour people like her.

Hermione was determined to give everyone a chance. While Violetta and Cygnus Black had seemed perfectly terrible in her opinion, it stood to reason that not _all_ Purebloods were arrogant and heartless. Wizards might have preconceived notions about her, but she would try to change their mind and make them see that a Muggleborn girl could be a good witch, and a good friend too.

It all depended on the House she chose. She would do very well in Ravenclaw. Rowena had been supportive of Muggleborns, or at least, she had not agreed with Salazar's plans of keeping them away from Hogwarts. The Slytherin House seemed the most averse to those whose parents and their parents' parents had not been magical. She almost pitied Tom, since it was certain he would end up in Slytherin and everyone there would know his last name was Granger. But then again, her brother was capable of making friends and enemies alike. She had seen enough of his cruelty not to worry too much for his sake.

Instead, she kept her eyes sharp for the people wearing blue and bronze ties. Those were the ones she was supposed to befriend first.

It was hard to make sense of it, though. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters (her father had already disparaged the "ridiculous" designation) was a melting pot of laughing faces and moving bodies.

"My, there are so many _boys_ mingling with so many _girls_," her mother remarked disapprovingly. "I do hope there are separate accommodations at Hogwarts. I'd hate for you to be exposed to such things, darling."

Hermione flushed scarlet. She hadn't told her mother and father about the Common Rooms. She'd read that the dormitories were a separate affair, but that boys and girls could mingle freely downstairs. This was no Clapton Girls' Academy. If someone from her street ever found out about it, the Grangers would be labelled as unorthodox.

She wondered what it would be like to have a friend that was a boy. Tom did not count. He was never going to be her friend.

He wasn't even going to help her carry her trunk into one of the compartments.

As soon as they'd boarded the train, he'd gone off with his luggage in a different direction. He didn't even stand by the windows to wave Cora and Henry goodbye. Hermione could hardly tear herself away. She wouldn't see them until December. She buried her face in her handkerchief, to prevent from crying. She was a big girl now. She was going away for school. But it would be an adventure. She would make the best of it.

"Be safe, my dears! And be good! Write to us, the both of you!" her mother called out before the mist swallowed her up and the train moved forward.

As trains went, this one felt like an ordinary Muggle one, for which Hermione was positively grateful. She'd liked the Knight Bus fine, but she wouldn't want to repeat the experience. Her stomach was in knots already, there was no need to make it worse.

The trouble now was to find a Ravenclaw compartment. She was too shy to follow other First-Years around, despite the fact that they were probably just as _petrified _as she was. It seemed wiser to set up camp with her future House and acquaint herself with the First-Years _after_ the Sorting. That was another terrifying ordeal. She wanted to ask the older Ravenclaw students about it, but she was afraid they'd laugh. After all, it was just an old hat, if _Hogwarts, A History_ was to be believed.

She dragged her trunk aimlessly down the corridor. She was grateful now she hadn't got a pet after all. Carrying an owl cage would have been murder.

_Tom must be lording it up with the Slytherins by now._

She was certain her brother had found his fellow comrades. She'd read about dozens of Pureblood families who had been sorted in Slytherin. There were bound to be some Blacks there too. She hoped Tom wouldn't betray – _well_, she hoped he wouldn't be so thick as to forget that the Blacks had treated them badly.

"Oh, no!"

She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts about Sorting and Houses that she had almost reached the end of the carriage without finding a compartment.

She decided she'd stop trying to find the Ravenclaws and just settle for any seat. Desperate not to be left out, she barged into the closest compartment she could find.

"Excuse me, is there room for one more?" she asked, out of breath.

There was plenty of room.

There was only one person sitting at the window. A boy.

Her mother's voice instantly chimed in her head._ It's not proper to be alone with a strange young man unless your father and I are in the same room or have approved of him._

She mumbled an apology as she was about to step out, when she noticed that his tie was blue and bronze.

_He's a Ravenclaw!_

This was her chance and it had been delivered on a silver platter. She couldn't resist.

"Be my guest," he said, non-committally. His features were regular, but there was something about the pronounced arch of his nose that made him look familiar, although she could swear she had never seen him in her life. He didn't sound particularly friendly, but that was all right. It was her job to convince him she was worth befriending, after all.

"How did you manage to get a compartment all for yourself, if you don't mind me asking?" she asked, struggling to fit her trunk in the luggage rack.

"I didn't. The Hufflepuff sitting with me left to find the food trolley."

"Oh. Sorry. The food trolley? I didn't know there was one. There was no mention of it in _Hogwarts, A History_. Have you read that book? Of course you have, you're not a First-Year. You must know everything about Hogwarts," she babbled inconsequentially as she tightened the straps on her trunk.

The boy looked at her queerly. "Everything? I don't even think Dippet knows _everything_ about Hogwarts."

"That's the Headmaster. I hear he was in Ravenclaw when he was a student, like you," she said, gesturing to his tie. She hoped she was being complimentary in her remark.

He examined her with the same quizzical expression. "Right. Well, I don't plan on being Headmaster any time soon."

Hermione flushed. "You never know."

"I think I do," he said, after a pause. "I wouldn't like to run a school. Would you?"

"I wouldn't pass up the chance if someone offered," she replied, settling down in her seat and brushing the folds of her skirt.

She was getting rather antsy, sitting there by herself with a strange boy. Her mother's face kept popping up in her head, like a sensible warning against impropriety. But she had done worse things in the past, hadn't she?

"When will your Hufflepuff friend be back?"

"She's not my friend. We know each other. She couldn't find a seat, like you."

Hermione frowned. The Ravenclaw boy wasn't exactly morose, but he wasn't the life of the party either. Still, there was a quiet reserve about him that she liked. It was almost…dignified.

"Oh, I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Hermione," she offered gamely. The 'Granger' could wait until the Sorting ceremony.

The boy followed her cue and answered with a simple, "Alphard."

"Alphard." She tasted the name on her tongue. "That's – hang on, that's a star, isn't it?"

His face suddenly brightened. He wasn't smiling by any stretch of the imagination, but his eyes were livelier, as if a ray of sunshine had fallen across his face. A look outside the window, however, only showed grey drizzle.

"Yes, it's the brightest star in the Hydra constellation."

"Right, of course, that's the water snake!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you a fan of Astronomy? You're going to like the Astronomy Tower then."

"I – I don't know, I've just read about stars, that's all," she answered shyly.

"You will like looking at them," he supplied, and this time, there may have been a hint of a smile.

She was about to say something nice in return when the compartment door flew open and the missing Hufflepuff appeared out of thin air.

"Oh, hullo. I don't think I know you. You're a First-Year?"

She was round of face and ginger of hair. She had very pretty blue eyes too. But more importantly she was an older _girl_, which relieved Hermione's conscience quite a bit.

She extended her hand in the girl's direction.

"Madeline Prewett," the Hufflepuff said plainly. "Everyone calls me Maddy but I don't like it."

"Oh, I don't have a nickname. My mother sometimes calls me 'Mione."

Madeline smiled. "So…Mione stands for?"

"Oh, Hermione! Sorry! I should have started with that," she babbled, shaking her head at her own malaise.

"It's all right, I'm not going to bite," Madeline appeased her with another warm smile. "Though, mind you, keep away from the Slytherins. They like to play all sorts of pranks on First-Years. Nasty pranks too. Gryffindors are much nicer, although they like to test your patience too. Hufflepuffs are the most decent lot, and I'm not just saying that."

Hermione laughed. She already liked Madeline. Alphard was not too bad either. Her first two friends, perhaps? No, it was too soon to tell. But if the Hat decided Ravenclaw wasn't for her, she was going to make sure she chose Hufflepuff second.

"I do envy the fact that your Common Room is so close to the Kitchens," Hermione offered, eager to show her know-how.

Madeline frowned. "How –"

"She's read _Hogwarts, A History_," Alphard informed her neutrally.

"Oh, Merlin! I dread to open that dusty codger, but I suppose it's good to know what you're up against."

Hermione wondered if she had just committed a faux-pas. Was _Hogwarts, A History_ not fashionable with her future classmates?

She was about to ask them to recommend a better book on the subject, when Madeline got up again.

"Right, I came here to get more sickles. The food trolley is robbing us blind! Do you want me to fetch you anything, Hermione?"

"Oh, no, thank you, you're very kind."

Of course, only later she realized she should have said yes. She should have offered to follow the girl outside.

She was sitting alone with a boy again.

"Bad weather we're having," she mumbled, looking out the window.

"Looks like it. So, which House are you considering?"

Hermione was nonplussed. She'd thought she'd made it obvious. "Yours, of course!"

Alphard looked taken aback.

"Oh, not because you're there! What I mean is – _naturally_, I picked this House before I met you."

Hermione wished the ground could swallow her up. Perhaps it showed on her face, because Alphard kindly chose not to follow that line of inquiry.

"I believe you. It's a good choice, as far as choices go. But the old hat is rather tetchy sometimes, so be careful."

"Be careful?" she echoed with concern.

"Make your choice very clear, don't falter. It will badger you if you're not sure. I – well, I know what I'm talking about."

Hermione frowned, bemused. What did he mean by that? Had there been a problem with _his_ sorting?

She was about to ask him, when the compartment door flew open a second time.

"Madeline, you've come back –" But it wasn't Madeline. It was her brother.

Hermione's face turned an alarming shade of white. She had almost forgotten about him.

"Tom."

"There you are."

He leaned against the doors with natural ease, almost as if he owned the place. She'd always envied his body's perfect symmetry. His hands were buried in his pocket. He had already put on his school robes and they looked unfairly good on him. Not in an obvious way, perhaps. Someone who didn't know her brother might even say he appeared gauche and unkempt, because the robes stood loose on his wiry frame. But the more you watched him, the more you realized every inch of him was perfectly attuned to his surroundings and even his disorder was only an afterthought of his elegance. She felt sour. Her own robes would look modest and plain.

"How did you find me? I thought you were …" She was going to say _with the Slytherins_, but for some reason she didn't want Alphard to know her brother was a shoe-in for that particular House.

"It wasn't hard to spot the bushy hair," he offered with his usual dose of candour, but he wasn't looking at her or her hair. He was staring directly at Alphard.

It lasted only a flash, and perhaps the Ravenclaw did not even notice, but Hermione caught it instantly. She'd seen it before, the scalding white light in his eyes. When she had made his snake fly and he had chased her up the stairs and he had put his hands around her neck –

It was gone before the memory could unfold.

"I hope my sister hasn't been bothering you. She can be quite a chatterbox," he spoke with a poised smile, the good boy smile she'd seen so many times.

"No, she's all right –"

"Oh, new company?" Madeline spoke behind him. She had returned with an armful of candies and chocolates. "Who wants some goodies?"

Tom looked affronted by the amount of sweets the girl had purchased, but he nonetheless affably offered to carry them all into the compartment.

Madeline was startled for a moment. Hermione could guess why. Tom Riddle was a bit of a shock at first glance. The girl tried to hide a blush, but her ginger complexion betrayed her.

"Please join us, why don't you?" she entreated Tom, brushing the locks out of her face nervously.

"Oh, no, I'm afraid I have to get back to my seat. I just wanted to check on my sister. See if she's all right." His tone was cloyingly sweet and affectionate, but his eyes were still scrutinizing the festive food with distaste.

"Aw, that's so thoughtful!" Madeline fawned, popping something that looked eerily like a chocolate _frog_ into her mouth. "I wish I had an older brother."

"We're the same age actually," Hermione chimed in rather stupidly. She was actually a few months _older_, not that it mattered.

"I'll see you when we get off, _Sis_," he intoned softly and turned around on his heels.

Hermione gulped, watching him go. He always called her that when he was angry. She wondered if anyone else had noticed. Alphard was looking out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

"He calls you 'Sis', that's lovely!" Madeline cried, extending her a box of "Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans". Hermione wondered if these beans were as queer as Florean Fortescue's ice creams.

"That's Tom for you," she said, shrugging her shoulders helplessly.

"Ah, I'll keep an eye on him. Hope you don't mind me saying so, Hermione, but I hope he ends up in Hufflepuff."

Hermione chuckled. _Fat chance of that happening. _"He's all yours, Madeline."

* * *

The water's spray was ice cold on her cheek and the wind was howling in her ears. She was huddled in a boat with other First-Years, shivering under her thin robes. Hermione had been excited about the traditional boat ride on the lake. It had sounded like something out of _The Faerie Queene_ when she'd read about it in the (not so very popular, after all) _Hogwarts, A History_. But the real thing was less than magical. The gamekeeper, a burly man called 'Ogg', who smelled like cheese and sported a bald patch on his head, was sitting in the front boat, guiding them along the water with his wand. She wished he'd make the boats go faster. Her toes were frostbitten by now.

But the rest of her complaints vanished into thin air when the clouds parted and the moon shone on the castle that was to be her home.

It looked like a fortress in the sky, framed as it was by the soft chains of mist rising from the water. She had never seen anything so beautiful. A thousand lights, a thousand turrets, a thousand dreams.

She could barely move her arms and legs as she stumbled out of the boat onto the pebbly shore. Her nose was runny and her breath came out in a fog, but she was here! She'd arrived at Hogwarts!

She didn't bother to look for Tom until most of the First-Years were crammed into the Entrance Hall. She'd read descriptions of the castle, but no book could do them justice. It was like standing on the threshold of an old legend, something from _Sir Gawain and The Green Knight._ There were torches on the wall and portraits up above and the people inside of them were moving!

"Welcome all of you to Hogwarts."

Her attention was drawn to the tall wizard standing at the foot of the giant marble staircase leading up into the castle. He was wearing a pointy hat and half-moon spectacles. A rather eccentric apparition, but the warmth in his voice put her at ease. The man seemed to know what he was doing.

"As you will pass through the doors on your right, you will enter the Great Hall where a lavish banquet awaits you to celebrate the beginning of the school year. But, before you can enjoy the food and drink, you must pass your first test by choosing the House that will be your home for the next seven years. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. The Sorting Hat will tempt you and you must answer its call. All of these Houses have given us outstanding wizards and witches, brilliant minds, formidable characters. Will you join them? The Sorting Ceremony is nothing to fear, and yet, everything depends upon it. Choose wisely and listen to your hearts."

Hermione knitted her eyebrows in confusion. It seemed everyone held farfetched notions about the Sorting Hat. _The Sorting Hat will tempt you?_ _Listen to your hearts?_ Yet the wizard's words had a strange, compelling effect upon her senses. It felt like he was speaking in riddles, and the closer she listened, the less she understood. She'd never heard a teacher talk like this before.

The spell was broken when he went on in a more formal fashion about the school rules and the House Cup, all things she'd read religiously in _Hogwarts, A History_.

It was at this point she started looking for her brother. It took a while to spot him, but she found him standing next to one of the stone braziers. He was talking to a pair of boys that looked destined for Slytherin as well, to judge from their nefarious expressions. She realized she wasn't the only one watching him. Several girls and boys were gawking at Tom, although trying to hide it. She could sympathize. In a sea of eleven-year olds, he was an older presence, a disturbance, even if he was only a child.

The double doors on the right opened and they were ushered into the Great Hall.

* * *

"Hermione Granger!"

"You're all right, you're all right," she muttered unconvincingly, as she detached herself from the bee-line which had formed behind her and walked up to the weathered stool. The giant Sorting Hat scowled and simpered at her approach.

She raised the brim with shaking hands and slipped it over her head, plopping herself down like a convict awaiting her sentence.

"Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw…" she started whispering urgently.

"Pah! Another busybody who thinks she knows best!" a snarl suddenly boomed in her ears.

Hermione froze in shock. She'd read that the Sorting Hat's deliberations could only be heard by its wearers, but she hadn't expected quite _such_ a strong baritone.

"Baritone? Aren't you a little bit presumptuous, dear? Very well, let's try that mind of yours."

_I think I'm well suited for Ravenclaw_, she thought meekly, awaiting the Hat's judgement.

"Believe it or not, I heard you the first three times," he retorted with biting irony.

Hermione decided to _stare_ at the Ravenclaw table instead, as if that would help the matter along.

"You're a sly thing, aren't you? Stubborn and wilful, always trying to have your way."

Hermione flinched. She couldn't believe her ears. _That's not true!_ _I always listen to my parents! I do my chores and my school work and I'm very good -_

"Are you _always_ very good, or only sometimes? Your parents were awfully worried when you ran away."

_That - that was Tom's idea!_

"You almost set those mean boys on fire. You wanted to _burn_ them."

_Yes, but – stop prying into my memories, please! They attacked first! And Tom did much worse than me. _

"Ah, memories. Precious things to have. But you want to deprive your parents of theirs."

Hermione's ears pricked with scalding shame. _Hang on, that's not fair! Tom and I were just talking nonsense…we were on the Knight Bus and…we were scared!_

"Dread is a funny thing, my dear. We often want to be afraid. What happened in that bathtub with your dear brother…"

Hermione put her palms over her eyes. _No, no, no, no, that's not who I am. I swear, I'm nothing like that!_

The Hat grunted wearily, as if it was tired of her repeated rebuttals.

"There is potential for brilliance in the workings of your mind. You show a passion for learning. You are brave and outspoken, and you feel every injustice deeply. I can even vouch that you are _kind_…but you are most cautious to show it. And ambition has driven its teeth deep inside of you. So I ask, child, what is truly in your heart? What is the nature of your soul?"

Hermione squirmed under his scrutiny. She tried not to think, not to breathe.

"It is your brother," it spoke finally. "You dread to be like him. You dread that you already are."

She bit the inside of her cheek until she felt the tang of blood.

_Please. I never want to be like him. He's vicious and cruel. He's done so many hurtful things. _

"But he's a part of you, isn't he?"

_He can't – he can't be._

She tried to think of ways Tom was different, things that clearly set them apart.

_I can't talk to snakes. He can. He can make them listen. I'm __**not**__ like him. _

"Perhaps. But you can make _him_ listen. You can tame the boy who tames the snakes."

Hermione's lips parted in surprise. _What do you mean?_

"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat hollered, to her horror.

* * *

Tom felt a startling burst of pride as he watched Hermione drag her feet towards the Slytherin table. She might have showed a bit more enthusiasm, since she had proven worthy of the _best_ House at Hogwarts. His sister could be a real simpleton when she chose to. In time, she would learn the value of her sorting. It might be an inconvenience to have her around all the time, she might embarrass him…Still, he would certainly enjoy exerting some much needed control over her. She was rather wild when left to her own devices. He had a first-hand experience with that...

"Tom Riddle Granger!"

That was another thing. He hoped to drop the boorish 'Granger' in the following weeks and be known simply as Tom Riddle. A challenge, no doubt, but one he could certainly overcome.

He walked up to the battered old Hat. He liked that such a small thing could withhold so much power, but he didn't relish putting the dirty rag on his head.

"Let's see!" the Hat rumbled in his ears. "A proud and convinced Slytherin!"

_Why yes, it's good of you to have noticed_, he thought smugly.

"The other Granger was mightily convinced too. She got an earful from me. Now it's your turn. Let's pick your mind, shall we?"

Tom didn't like the impish scratch of its voice, but he settled comfortably on the stool and waited to hear the Slytherin verdict.

"Yes, yes, the brilliant boy who can talk to snakes. Your sister told me all about you."

_Leave her out of this, _Tom demanded crossly. What _had_ that little minx said about him anyway?

"Ooh, you two are a pair. I would say I've hit upon a soft spot. But she isn't your soft spot, is she?"

_No_, Tom gritted. _Get on with it, please._

"What a cautious little girl she was, while you quickly fell for the Ministry's charms. A head full of dreams, a heart full of hope."

_What are you…that's got nothing to do with it…we were there for a hearing. It was a serious matter._

"Yes, you took it very seriously. You called your sister a coward when she wouldn't speak up for herself. You wanted to stand up and show them who you truly are."

_The Blacks were being horrid. I had to do something._

"Yes, you felt compelled to act fast, to be bold and reckless. You didn't even hold on to the gold ropes, even when you were warned."

_That's nonsense! I'm not reckless! That was just an elevator!_

"Jumping through back-alleys, navigating the underbelly of the big city…carrying your sister on a grand adventure…"

_We were running away! I was being cautious!_

"Caution?" the Hat echoed humorously. "That, my boy, was thrown out the window when you decided to put the baby inside the Cabinet."

_I was only curious. I never meant to –_

"Yes, you never meant, because you did not think. You did not think about the future. It was the present that mattered. Your sister had to spin a good story to get you out of trouble."

Tom's hands were shaking with rage. _You don't know anything about me and her._

"Perhaps. Perhaps you are the brilliant boy who can talk to snakes. But what is the nature of your soul? What is the secret of your heart?"

Tom felt fear for the first time since he'd sat down.

"Ah, how did you put it to your sister on that cold night in the abandoned sheepfold? People only love the cameo you made of yourself. But you want to be loved for who you are."

_No. Shut up. That was just - that was nothing. I was ill, I was…_

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat hollered, to his horror.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Yes. I just did that. I sorted Tom Riddle into Gryffindor. *hides* I hope I've built a convincing argument as to why, in this version, and thanks to his sister, Tom now belongs in a different House. I think future chapters will convince you as well. Don't worry, he's still creepy Tom Riddle (with a twist). But hey, Gryffindors can be pretty terrifying, as we shall see. **

**So, finally at Hogwarts! I know I'm excited!**

**A couple of things; the blue ribbon mentioned in this chapter also appeared in Chapter 4, for anyone wishing to refresh their memory. As for all the moments the Sorting Hat brought up, you'll find them scattered about in previous chapters. **

***exhales***

**This was a beast of a chapter and it really sucked me dry, although I loved writing it. If I've gotten some things wrong canonically, please don't be too mad. Sometimes I like to mix things up, and sometimes I'm just not very professional. But I want to thank you all for the overwhelming number of reviews. I'm always shocked and eternally grateful that this story has made it this far and with so much support. I'm a bit (or more) knackered at the moment, so I haven't gotten to answering all the reviews yet, but I am humbled by your comments and am in love with all of you in a creepy Merope Gaunt kind of way. **

**To the anonymous reviewers that leave so many lovely comments, you rock my socks off, and I want to answer each and every one of you, but it's gotten a bit impractical because you're so many. Please don't be discouraged to review, though! I love hearing from you! I promise next installment I'll be a bit more organized on that front. See you next time!**


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

"My advice is to say you're Half-Blood, like me. Don't ever mention you're Muggleborn again. In time, I'm sure they will forget. Slytherins can tolerate two Half-Bloods."

Hermione nodded half-heartedly. She was not eager to apply her new roommate's wisdom. Tilda Clearwater did not seem like the kind of person you went to for advice. She was a wisp of a girl, bony and small, who always had her nose stuck in a handkerchief. She claimed she suffered from terrible migraines and "sea sickness".

"Well, we do sleep under a lake!" she had moaned at breakfast for all the House to hear.

Hermione would not have picked her as a friend, if she'd had a choice. But Tilda was the only First-Year who had said more than two words to her ever since she had been sorted.

Hermione had expected the cold shoulder from a House that placed a great value on blood. She had been ready for veiled insults or deprecating stares. But she had got little of those. As a matter of fact, she had not been ill-treated at all; not in the traditional sense of the word. No, she was simply being ignored. The Slytherins did not really _see_ her. From the moment she sat down at their table, she became one with the chair and the wall. Their attention was drawn back to the sorting, because Hermione Granger was not going to prove more interesting than an old hat.

For several days, she thought this might be part of a time-honoured tradition; to single out the witch who was different and pretend she did not exist. But the answer was much more mundane. Purebloods already knew each other _before_ school. Their families ran in the same circles. They were a sheltered society. It made perfect sense that their off-spring would only talk to each other. Hermione might have done the same thing in their stead. After all, she usually did not speak to girls who did not attend Clapton Girls' Academy. Her parents, too, mostly kept with their side of Islington.

Knowing all of this, she tried not to feel slighted. It was up to her to win them over, if that was ever a possibility. The Purebloods had been raised together; of course they would not appreciate an outsider in their midst. Besides, her father had always said that perseverance in the face of severity was what had got Britain through the Great War, and surely Hogwarts was a much nicer affair than a war.

It was depressing, though, talking only to Tilda Clearwater. The first night she spent in the Slytherin Common Room, Hermione wept bitter tears into her pillowcase, homesick already, and afraid of what the next day might bring. The only comforting words she heard Tilda say from the opposite bed were,

"You're going to give yourself a headache if you keep crying, and I am not sharing my Lady Melancholy Compresses with you."

Hermione soon found out about Lady Melancholy Compresses, since Tilda swaddled her entire face with them before going to bed. They were supposed to dispel bad humours and nefarious auras.

Tilda was frankly insulted Hermione never asked for one, and on the third night of their cohabitation, she left a packet on Hermione's bed. She thought this was oddly sweet of her, until Tilda demanded to know why she had 'taken' a Compress without her permission.

The other First-Years in their dormitory were three Purebloods who knew each other fairly well. They usually spoke in hushed tone and avoided Hermione and Tilda whenever they could. Tilda sneered at them and called them names behind their back.

"The plump one, Beatrice Pucey, she snores like a hog. I've heard her on several occasions. I _could_ recommend her an ointment my Uncle uses on his nostrils, but I'm not going to, because she thinks she's better than us."

Of course, whenever she was in Beatrice Pucey's presence, Tilda flattered her unctuously, and saved her a seat next to her at breakfast - which Pucey invariably ignored.

Hermione found these proceedings painful, if amusing. There was plenty of irony in her circumstances. Though she was of no noble blood, she dined on suppers fit for kings and returned each evening to sumptuous underground rooms, all polished silver and dazzling dark green. The Common Room reminded her of a bachelor's private study. She had once visited her mother's cousin in Oxford, and he had kept similar rooms. But at least Cousin Wallace lived there alone. Here, she walked by dozens of Slytherins spread out on sofas and armchairs, impossible to ignore or avoid. Many of them were boys, many of them were older, and _all_ of them were her parents' worst nightmare.

She was supposed to write home for her first letter of the month as she'd promised her mother, but she was quite sure she was not supposed to reveal that she had caught a Fifth-Year Slytherin boy sleeping in his pyjamas in front of the fire-place. She hadn't seen her own _Dad_ in anything but the standard Oxford cardigan and tie all his life.

Of course, she had seen Tom naked, but he did not count. No, he was certainly not to be counted. She tried _not_ to think of him too much during the first days. She was too busy marvelling at what Hogwarts had to offer her outside the Slytherin Common Room.

As Alphard had promised her, she was very taken with the Astronomy Tower. It was hard not to be impressed. The scenery was something out of a book of fairy-tales, Hans Christian Andersen perhaps. The tower stood above the clouds, surrounded by mountain ranges that were always white with snow. She had to pinch herself to realize it wasn't a dream. Professor Saracen regularly scolded her away from the parapets. He was not unkind, but he was impatient with First-Years and their "foolish ogling". Hermione tried to conceal her excitement to the best of her ability. She was supposed to act more grown-up now, as if she was already inured to magic. It always helped to think of her parents and what they would say if they were present in the room. She could picture her father huffing in a disbelieving fashion at the ornate cushions which students had to lie down on to observe the stars. "Well, well, and I suppose they serve you little cakes and tea, too?"

The greenhouses were equally charming and peculiar. Every time she took her Herbology lessons there, she almost felt like she was in the countryside, surrounded as she was by all manner of creeping plants. Her mother would have loved it. Cora had always wanted to get her thumbs green, but never managed to find the time. Hermione did not fancy planting tulips and the like, and thankfully, Herbology involved nothing of the sort. It was rather tough and gritty work, the kind that left you panting for breath and worrying about your fingers. She had almost lost a thumb when she had got too close to a Venomous Tentacula.

"And that is why we wear the dragon-hide gloves, Miss Granger," Professor Beery had reminded sternly, inspecting her swollen hands.

She had mollified him, however, when she had, unprompted by anyone, recited the special attributes of her attacker.

"…and many people don't know that Venomous Tentacula can provide ingredients for a powerful healing elixir. You simply crush the spikes in a fine powder and add them, along with asphodel, to the healing potion of your choosing."

She had looked at the rest of the class for confirmation, but they had returned mostly empty glances. Hadn't they read the textbooks too? She believed she had rendered the authors' ideas passably.

"Very good, Miss Granger, Five Points to Slytherin!" Professor Beery had rewarded her.

The Slytherins had not seemed particularly grateful for the points. In fact, Beatrice Pucey had looked embarrassed on her behalf. But she had caught two Hufflepuff girls smiling in her direction, and she had smiled back. She later found out their names were Margot and Marina Droope. They were twin sisters, and they wanted to start a club for "natural sciences". It was going to be called _Crackpot_, although the name might undergo changes, and would she like to join? Did she know their father was the famous "Langton Droope", herbologist and zoologist extraordinaire? Hermione confessed she had never heard of him, but they did not seem offended by her ignorance. Instead, they told her to spread the word around Hogwarts that the Droope sisters were starting a _very_ select club for lovers of all things "odd". Hermione noticed that the rest of the Hufflepuff First-Years rolled their eyes whenever they heard the two mention it. But they insisted it was going to be "a riot".

"The first meeting's on October third, in the Hufflepuff Common Room. Bound to be superior to the Slug Club. Our _father_ was in the Slug Club, you know. But we think we can do better than that, don't we, Margot?"

"I certainly think so, Marina."

"Slug Club?" she inquired doubtfully. Why would anyone form a club dedicated to _slugs_?

The sisters tittered happily. "Oh, you'll see."

Of course, not everyone was the Droope sisters. Hermione's attitude in class had the unwarranted effect of turning away most people. Her mother had always said that the key to success was making a good impression on your teachers. She intended to follow that through. She always raised her hand at every question and offered more information than was required of her. She also made sure she sat in the front row for every class, which made some of her desk-mates very unhappy. In fact, one Ravenclaw boy claimed he had saved a seat for his friend. When Hermione kindly offered to conjure another chair for them, the Ravenclaw merely gaped.

"You can already conjure _chairs_?"

"It's not very hard; a Conjuring Charm is explained in Chapter Ten of _The Standard Book of Spells_. I can only conjure a stool for now, but with enough practice I should be able to make something bigger. Here, I can show you -"

Safe to say, the Ravenclaw boy did not want to humour her.

The only time she had difficulties in proving herself was when the Slytherins shared classes with the Gryffindors; a regular occurrence, unfortunately. She had the distinct pleasure of seeing her brother in Potions, Astronomy, Transfiguration _and_ Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Hermione had hoped that different Houses would have put some distance between them. She had been shocked, of course, when he had been sorted into Gryffindor, but a part of her had been relieved to know they would not cross paths anymore. Tom would have surely found a way to blame her for his sorting, as he had been so keen on Slytherin.

It had been smooth sailing until their first Transfiguration lesson with Professor Dumbledore. She had sat down in the front row in trepidation, wondering if he would come up to her and tell her horrid things or take out his wand to jinx her. She had been a nervous wreck right until Professor Dumbledore walked in and told the students to be quiet. She could not feel Tom in her vicinity, but she knew he was there somewhere, watching her. She did not turn her head to see.

After a few minutes, Professor Dumbledore was already explaining how to turn a simple Knut from bronze to green. Hermione knew this was the most basic form of object-alteration and she breathlessly supplied the professor with details regarding the magical process, dreading that Tom might speak up before she did. He _had_ read the textbooks, after all. She did not want to be outdone. But no familiar voice chimed in behind her.

"Ten points to Slytherin, Miss Granger," Professor Dumbledore rewarded her with a smile that made his eyes twinkle. He kept his shrewd gaze on her while she expertly managed to turn the coin from bronze to a pretty shade of green. It matched her Slytherin tie nicely. She looked up at him, greedily waiting for more points, when something swished by her head and almost made her lose her balance. She thought she saw a white blur above her head, and when she looked more closely, she noticed it was a small bird with bronze streaks on its wings. It flew across the classroom clumsily before it turned back into a Knut and fell into the open palm of ...her brother.

"Ah, sorry Professor. Must have made a mistake."

Hermione froze in her seat, lips parted in surprise. Her classmates were none the wiser. Everyone was staring at the dark-haired boy sitting at the very end of the class.

"I didn't even get the colour right," he added with a guilty smile, and several Gryffindors in his vicinity chuckled, which had the effect of breaking the tension and making it all seem like a funny joke. Even the Slytherins smiled. Hermione did not.

"Charming, Mr. Riddle...Granger," Professor Dumbledore commented, unperturbed by the general merriment. "Ten points to Gryffindor...for being so very Gryffindor."

Hermione scowled, turning her eyes back to the blackboard. _She_ could transfigure the Knut into a bird too if she tried, but _she_ liked to follow intelligent instructions and not act on a whim for no reason. He was just showing off! _Poorly_, she might add. What was he expecting to gain from this display? Everyone knew it was easier to turn an inanimate object animate. It was the other way around that was much harder.

She surveyed her classmates. Well...maybe not _everyone_ knew.

When she snuck a glance at Tom a few minutes later, she saw that he was not sitting alone. He was barricaded on both sides by two loud and cheerful Gryffindor boys who nudged him playfully from time to time and whispered in his ear. They seemed the complete opposite of Tom, which was no surprise, but they did remind her of his old grammar school cronies. Except...except, Tom was smiling back at them. Not only that, but he was humouring their jokes, even allowing them to touch him.

That was strange. Tom had always kept his distance from his school friends. She remembered Eddie and George and the rest of the gang. They used to fear him more than like him. But the Gryffindors sitting next to him had no such qualms about invading his personal space. They felt no danger in putting their arms around his shoulder. Why was Tom acting so friendly? She had assumed he would hate being in Gryffindor.

As for the trick he had performed in front of Professor Dumbledore...Tom always did his best to impress figures of authority, but he usually made a more dignified attempt. This wasn't like him, but... it was. She was puzzled.

Before she had the sense to turn around, their eyes met across the room. He had caught her watching. Hermione turned pink. In a flash, her dear old brother resurfaced before her eyes and his stare turned predatory, betraying a hunger for violence that she knew all too well. It was _insidiously _comforting, how well she knew that violence. A lopsided smile was frozen on his lips, a flimsy civil gate that could be stormed at a moment's notice and be replaced with an ugly scowl.

It only lasted a second or two, enough to pass by unnoticed. But no one else had to see, no one else except her.

Before she had blinked twice, he was chuckling at a joke one of the boys had whispered in his ear.

* * *

Oh, how she must have _enjoyed_ watching him walk to the Gryffindor table.

Tom had never felt more humiliated in his life. As he pushed the stupid hat back on his forehead, he saw a sea of red cheering and clapping for him. Their hands were reaching for him like claws, dragging him into their midst. He felt sick to his stomach. This was not supposed to happen. Everything was supposed to be perfect now that he was at Hogwarts. He had thought these people would know his true worth.

He'd been wrong.

The hat's cry still rang in his ears. _GRYFFINDOR, GRYFFINDOR, GRYFFINDOR..._

He wanted to turn and bolt and never come back. They couldn't make him. But his body seemed to have a mind of its own, or at least it knew that life was never so easy. _Don't be stupid._

His feet shuffled mechanically to an empty seat next to a boy with a bright shock of red hair.

Tom fell in his chair like dead weight, surveying the Great Hall from a great distance. He was numb with shock. It felt like being underwater. Even sounds were distorted, echoing grotesque fragments in his ear... laughter and talking and eating... children feasting happily, candles glittering above his head... a true nightmare.

"Hallo, I'm Septimus Weasley, Seven for short! Well, not for short, but Septimus _is_ Seven in Latin, although I suppose it also means "the seventh", which should be about right since I've got six brothers and sisters –"

The boy with the red hair was talking to him. Tom blinked. Why was he talking to him? Why did he assume he cared to know?

" – and all of them were sorted into Gryffindor. There's not a Weasley alive who wasn't scarlet and gold at one point. I know everything there's to know about this House. I want to try out for the Quidditch team too, but probably when I'm older, seeing as they don't really trust First-Years to fend for themselves."

Tom watched him speak. He watched his mouth, pink and large and wet, as it rose and fell and stretched into an insipid, warm grin. His face bespoke little intelligence, but there was something keen about it, something feral that Tom recognized. This was a boy raised with older brothers who probably knew how to fight, who probably cried when his brothers bested him and shoved his face in the dirt, but who then got up and laughed and forgot all about it. This boy held no grudges, no discontent. He was small.

"Oh, this is Flea," Weasley pointed next to him to a boy whose jet-black hair looked like a ferret's nest. "He's a tad shy, like you, but he's a good chap. He's terrific at flying, but I'll best him yet, won't I, Flea?"

"In your dreams, Seven. I'm not _actually_ called Flea, by the way," the boy said, stretching his hand across the table.

Tom stared at it for a moment too long, before he took it reluctantly. It felt limp and clammy in his hand.

"Fleamont Potter. I'm not shy, just knackered. My father had me drive the car all the way to London for practice."

"Flea's got a flying car, you see. Isn't he lucky?" Weasley commented wistfully.

"It's _not_ my car, otherwise I'd give it to you, just to shut you up about it. Anyway, I'm much better off on a broomstick."

"I know _that_, but flying cars are so rare!" Weasley protested. "Of course, Muggles have had them for ages, but theirs stink and cause a lot of trouble. And they don't fly."

"That they don't," Potter agreed with a grin.

Tom listened to their exchange intently and assessed their bond. Close friends, by the looks of it, although Potter was more reserved about it and seemed to silently dominate Weasley. Then he remembered something he had seen at the Ministry. A plaque above Courtroom Two with the names of wizards and witches who had served in the Wizengamot. Everything about it appeared vividly in his head.

"Henry Potter...served in the Wizengamot, didn't he?"

Fleamont raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. "Yes, that's my father! How do you know about that?"

Tom shrugged. "I ...had a few dealings at the Ministry."

Both boys looked at him rather impressed. "What kind of dealings?"

"The unpleasant kind," Tom supplied enigmatically. He knew how the minds of young boys worked.

"Did you do something illegal?" Fleamont asked, cocking his head in interest.

"I'm not allowed to talk about it, strictly, but..." Tom trailed off, finding that he rather enjoyed this little performance. "I toyed with some forbidden magic."

"Ooh, brilliant!" Weasley cried. "You're in good company then, er...Thomas?"

Tom frowned. _Good company_. The words seemed to give credence to that stupid hat. But he did not belong here. This was not his world, or his people. These were children. And they only saw what they wanted to see.

_They love whatever I give them to love._

Those blasted words. That _blasted_ memory. A moment of weakness, now forever the cause of his dislocation. He could have been sitting with the Slytherins right now. Instead...instead there was an imposter in his place.

His eyes moved almost without thought to the table at the opposite end of the Hall. It did not take long to spot her and her frightful hair. His sister could never hide for long. There she was, that little bitch, sitting in his rightful seat, looking around her like she was lost. She had ungraciously landed in the most coveted House at Hogwarts and she was _sulking_. Ungrateful, treacherous, conniving...

He wanted to rush at her with all his strength, sink his hands in her coarse hair, smash her face against the marble steps, dig his fingers in the back of her neck, push down on her pulse until the blood flowed to her broken cheeks and made her eyes swim in tears. Watch her choke on her saliva. Beat her fragile skull into ash, sift his fingers through it and let it disperse in the air. Inhale the scent of triumph.

The need was so strong that he felt his fork tremble and bend in his hand. He did not even realize he had been holding it.

He exhaled. He put the fork down.

That was what a stupid _Gryffindor_ would have done. Plunge in before knowing the danger. Take revenge but forget the consequences. He couldn't do that.

And yet, she had taken this from him.

It was _her_ fault. He knew this with perfect clarity. If she had not poured all those stupid thoughts into his brain, if she had not sucked his magic like a leech and turned it rotten...

Oh, how she must have _enjoyed_ watching him walk to the Gryffindor table. He knew what lay behind that soft and bewildered expression. He knew her deceptive nature. She must have taken pleasure in his humiliation, just as she took pleasure in every bad thing that happened to him.

"Er, Thomas, are you all right?" Weasley was asking him with concern.

How would he make her _pay_?

Now _there_ was a happy thought. The first thought to make him smile that evening.

"Just _Tom_. Tom Riddle. And I'm excellent."

* * *

Shades of scarlet and ochre gleamed violently from every corner of the Common Room. He was sheathed in a room of blood, a womb of unplumbed depth. He would be reborn here, he supposed. Every new home meant shedding skin after skin after skin. He had learned that at the orphanage, in the seedy back alleys of an indifferent London, in the Grangers' home, at the Ministry... There was never a constant, never a true course – just change. How far could one change before one removed oneself from the very first breath one took? He did not care to find out. The only direction to take was forward.

And so, in the following days, he tasted these children and their appetites. Weasley and Potter, or rather, _Seven_ and _Flea_, started walking with him to and from class, mostly because his stories were hard to resist.

"So, you are saying you've actually been in a Muggle _bar_? By yourself?"

"Of course. I snuck inside one afternoon. It wasn't hard. I hid in the back, where they keep the bottles stacked against the wall. I wanted to see what real spirits taste like."

"And?!" they both asked impatiently.

"Awful, simply awful. I did like the scotch, though," Tom said with a fractious grin.

The novelty of his experiences was his best selling point with them, since the two Purebloods had never set a foot outside their bounds. They had their Mummies and Daddies and sisters and brothers to tell them what to do.

"And you don't know who your real parents are, then?" Flea asked with interest. "They could be _anyone_."

That was another thing. They could not point him on a map of lineage. He could have been everything and nothing – Muggleborn, Half-Blood, Pureblood. It was a mystery that enthralled the two boys.

"Are you going to try and find them, though?" Seven persisted, excited at the prospect.

"I will, one day. But there's more fun in not knowing, isn't there?" he chuckled. That was a lie, of course. He still kept Bob Ogden's address safely tucked in his belongings. But Weasley and Potter were both delighted with his devil-may-care attitude.

He had never thought that his grubby past could come in handy at Hogwarts. He was certain the Slytherins would not have countenanced such vulgar stories, but it seemed that his roguishness was a winning point with the Gryffindors.

The only sore and rather thorny topic of discussion was his sister. In class, their last names were unfortunately mentioned together, and it was obvious they were _related_. It was difficult to put aside the matter when they happened to share Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy _and_ Transfiguration.

"That's your sister? The one in Slytherin who's always got her hand up?" Alistair 'Al' Finnigan asked him during Transfiguration one day, and he couldn't very well deny it, but he amended it with, "She's actually my stepsister."

He wanted them to slowly forget he was a Granger. If he was going to make a name for himself as _Riddle_, he had to plant the idea in their heads that she was a remote presence in his life.

Luckily, Hermione sat in the front row for every class, as if she were afraid the Professors would float away if she were not there to stop them. He and his fellow Gryffindors sat in the back, ruling over a vast domain of whispers and nudges. He almost enjoyed himself at times, letting them simper and chatter happily, while he thought of good ways to punish her.

Oh, yes... on the outside, he would act as if she were a distant cousin whose existence bore no particular meaning to him. But deep beneath this delicate surface, he would be her _good_ brother and teach her what it meant to take something precious from him. He had years ahead of him to pay her back for the red on his tie. He would wait and hunt for each opportunity.

There was little to occupy his mind otherwise. He couldn't be very bothered with class. He was infinitely bored by the rudimentary information the rest of the students were only now becoming acquainted with. He estimated that he would only have to pay attention again somewhere around his Second Year. The trick was to appear exceptional without raising the Gryffindors' suspicions. He had to impress his Professors by not doing much at all. It was an entertaining exercise. He had enjoyed the look on Hermione's face when he made that bird fly right into her hair.

She was such a "promising young girl", Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin House, had remarked once during Potions. But it was _he_ who had caught his attention when he'd added silver and nightshade to his Wiggenweld Potion.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle-Granger, what have we here...oh, goodness! You've turned a healing potion into a hazard! Why, if anyone drinks this now, they'll wake up and experience extreme hallucinations!"

"Yes, Sir, but they _will_ wake up, which is the purpose of the potion," he had ruefully pointed out, earning him plenty of chuckles from the walrus-mustached professor. Everyone liked a maverick. An innocent jester. He was only experimenting, after all.

"Ah, you Gryffindors have moxie, I'll give you that," Slughorn had beamed, unconcerned. The stupid man was rather gullible, just like his sister. _She_ foolishly obeyed the ruled and listened to her teachers and parroted information at the drop of a hat. She was content with the silly House Points she was awarded. She must have thought that made her special. But there were so many other parrots in the world. There was only one of him.

Every time she turned her nose up at his parlour tricks, he felt a stab of pleasure. He could see, from her creased brow and thinning mouth, that she wished she was getting the same attention.

_Never fear, Sis. I have my eyes on you. _

And he did.

* * *

The last class of the evening was Astronomy. It was going to be very exciting, because it was the first time they were going to stay up past midnight and watch the stars. Professor Saracen had referred to it as research for their essays, and not something recreational, but Hermione was giddy with excitement. She was rarely allowed to stay up this late at home. Three weeks into her new life at Hogwarts, she was still mostly stuck with Tilda Clearwater and had formed a tentative friendship with the Droope twins. Neither of these connections was exactly a boon to her reputation, but it was better than nothing. She had hoped to run into Alphard again and say hello. She saw him sometimes at the Ravenclaw table, keeping to himself and eating his meals quickly, but she never had the courage to go up to him. It would have been impolite to intrude... She applied the same thinking to Madeline Prewett, who, though friendlier than Alphard, was probably not interested in a First-Year _Slytherin_.

There was still Tom, of course. But he did not count. She was determined to scratch him from the equation whenever he popped into her head. He was infuriating and perplexing in his newfound Gryffindor persona. She could not figure out if it was all a game, like a shirt to be worn and then removed, or a new skin that was just as _Tom_ as the rest of him.

At least he could not reach her anymore, not like he could at home.

The Gryffindors filed in one after another in the Astronomy Tower and lay down on the free cushions. Tilda Clearwater, who was lying next to her, nudged her painfully in the ribs and pointed her chin at Tom.

"Why doesn't he come sit with us? He _is_ your brother."

Hermione shook her head. "It's not like that – I told you, we're not very close and besides, he's my step –"

"Yes, yes, but you grew up together. Where is his Gryffindor loyalty?" Tilda questioned, sounding mildly affronted, as if it was her own sibling she was talking about.

"I am happy with the present company," Hermione lied, hoping Tilda would drop the subject altogether.

"He _is_ quite handsome. I expect you will put in a good word for me."

Hermione raised herself on her elbows. "You are joking."

"I hardly ever joke," Tilda sniffed.

"Then I will pretend you were joking," Hermione replied crossly, and luckily, Professor Saracen cut off their conversation before it could get worse.

Many of the students were drowsy with sleep, but Hermione felt as awake as the day. She adjusted her telescope with her wand and waited patiently for Professor Saracen's further instructions. Tonight, they would study Orion's Belt. She and Tilda had to take turns observing the stars and writing down ascensions and declinations. But Tilda kept passing Hermione the telescope, claiming a terrible headache.

"I can't be expected to work at night."

Hermione did not mind, as she enjoyed gazing at the Belt very much. She was engrossed in sketching the Mintaka star, and was surprised to hear Tilda's voice in her ear.

"He's got the profile of a Slytherin. It would have been a good thing if he had been sorted with us."

Hermione did not have to make an effort to guess whom she was referring to, and she wrinkled her nose in annoyance. "Why would _that_ have been a good thing?"

"Well, we would have climbed up the social ladder much quicker with someone like him at our side. Look, he is already friends with Purebloods. Although, Weasley and Potter are not the most coveted of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. And in fact, I think Potter was taken off the list because his father was too supportive of Muggles."

Hermione tried to tune Tilda out. She loved to talk at length about Pureblood history, partly because and_ in spite_ of the fact that it was something she would never be a part of. Hermione wished she would complain about her headaches instead of talking about the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

"Anyway, have you told him my name?" she demanded to know.

"Who?"

"Tom, of course."

Hermione heaved a sigh. "Yes, I told him all about you."

"_Really_?"

She avoided answering that by claiming she had discovered a small constellation that required her attention. It wasn't until the end of the class that she heard Tilda say something about Potter having fallen asleep.

"Those of you who need to finish your charts may stay for five more minutes. The rest may leave. _Quietly_," Professor Saracen warned, eyeing the Gryffindors in particular.

Hermione had finished her chart quite early, but she remained glued to her telescope. In no time, she would have to return to the dark and cavernous ceilings of the Slytherin Common Room. She would rather watch the night sky awhile longer. She heard Tilda rise unceremoniously.

"Well? Are you coming? I am _dreadfully_ tired."

"Go without me," Hermione mumbled, adjusting her telescope with purpose.

"_Fine_. But do not complain to me about dark circles come morning."

Hermione was left in blessed silence. The class was nearly empty now, and Professor Saracen was arranging the telescopes back in the supply closet.

She turned her head to better observe Alnilam's right ascension when she felt a searing pain in her scalp. She pulled up the telescope to find her hair was trapped under the sole of a dark shoe.

Hermione's eyes travelled up with dread.

"Hello, Sis."

He was towering over her like a triumphant giant. He smiled, teeth-bared, eyes shining like two chips of ice. Hermione felt a lump in her throat.

"I see you're getting on. I hope you haven't forgotten about me."

She wanted to laugh. If she could have expunged him from her head, she would have done it a long time ago.

She gritted her teeth. "Get off."

The tip of his wand touched the green and silver tie around her neck. "Don't get too comfortable wearing that."

"Or what? You will steal it? You _can't_ be in Slytherin. You've lost your chance."

She shouldn't have said that. She did not even believe it. She'd no idea why she'd brought it up. But she was always meaner and nastier around him, as if his vile manners were contagious.

Tom narrowed his eyes. His heel ground down on her hair. Hard. She gasped in pain.

"Let go!"

She made to reach into her pocket and take out her wand, but he made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat.

"Why...where's your sisterly affection, Hermione?"

The tip of his wand grazed her chin and lips, glided down her nose and settled on the spot just below her left eye.

"What would happen if you lost an eye? Could you still _gaze at the stars_?" he mocked tenderly.

Hermione blinked. He wouldn't do it, he wouldn't harm her right in front of where the teacher might see. But this was Tom. He could do a lot of damage, witness or no.

She acted on instinct. She brought her hands around his leg and pulled down hard.

Tom was caught off-guard. He toppled down on Tilda's empty cushion with the grace of a lame horse. Hermione scrambled to her feet in a moment's notice. She had taken out her wand as a precaution, when Professor Saracen happened to walk in at that very moment.

"Ah! Every year!" he exclaimed, incensed. "Every year, a Slytherin thinks he can threaten a Gryffindor student and get away with it. Well, not this time. Detention, Miss Granger!"

"But Professor, he was the one who antagonized –"

"I don't want to hear another word! I will see you Thursday evening in my office, eight o'clock sharp."

Tom rose gracefully from the floor, dusting his robes.

"Thank you for being fair, Professor."

He smiled a positively seraphic smile in her direction, but his eyes cut through skin and bone and marrow and warned her this was only the beginning.

Hermione couldn't believe it. Her first detention, all thanks to him.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Well, it's been longer than usual, and this is because I rewrote this chapter about, oh, eleven times? I honestly don't know why it gave me so much trouble, but I suppose I wanted to get it right, since it's their intro to Hogwarts. I hope I _did_ get it right. I tried to include a little of everything. Though, don't worry, the pace will pick up in the next chapters, since I intend to get them to an older stage sooner rather than later. That being said, most of the characters and details mentioned here are canonical, except for a happy few. Fleamont Potter and Septimus Weasley are real canon people who attended Hogwarts roughly around this period. Ditto for Margot Droope, who now has a twin sister, courtesy of me. Professor Beery is a real guy who taught Herbology around that time. Tilda is Penelope Clearwater's great grandmother (and my invention) etc.**

**Anyway, I hope I'm slowly convincing non-believers that Tom in Gryffindor works (just as, y'know, Harry Potter in Slytherin would have worked too; two sides of the same coin and all that).**

**I can't really thank any of you enough for the number of reviews I received for the previous chapter, I was quite literally blown away. I'm so glad this small story has caught your interest and I hope you stick with it, even though sometimes I am too hard on myself and rewrite chapters ad nauseam. Oh well. Thank you!**

**Singling out a few lovely anonymous reviewers: Christine Rose (thanks a lot! you will actually see quite a bit of Alphard later!), Jessica (ah, bless you, I'm so flattered to hear that! I hope the story keeps surprising you), Super smiley (thanks for all your thoughts! I'm glad you enjoyed the sorting, and you are absolutely right that it's quite easier and more effective for Tom to play innocent in Gryffindor. Also, some of your questions were hopefully answered in this chapter), Tazo (thank you, and you are absolutely right, I am very much looking forward to writing Tom and Dumbledore's confrontations now that they are so closely connected), Uglug (you make very good points, and I myself agree with you that I should have set-up the entire premise better, but I feel that Harry and Tom, being so similar and yet so different, could exchange Houses as well, especially if Tom was triggered to show a different side of himself by someone like Hermione. That side is not necessarily positive, it's just different. And yes, I admit that my sorting hat is a bit nasty, but this is something that has always bothered me in the books. I suppose I simply don't buy the concept of "choosing" a House at eleven. It makes little sense to me for a child to simply opt for Ravenclaw due to some perceived preferences and be allotted this position for seven years of their life. I guess this is why this fanfic is AU. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, though! It gave me a lot of food for thought. I hope to do better in the future), G. Pennifold (thank you for agreeing with my arguments! And yes, I do see the sorting hat as fair in its unfairness, well put! You're very right it's more about future potential than current capabilities, I mean they _are_ eleven). **

**I'm sorry if I didn't manage to get to everyone, but I'm sadly on a tight schedule, and it's the middle of the night here, as usual. But know that I read every single review and smile or cry, whichever emotion hits me at that moment.**

**On another note, be on the lookout for another playlist I managed to crop up for the fic. **

**As always, share your thoughts and see you next time!**


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